The Ghost In The Theatre
by PhantomInspector
Summary: An alleged mugging takes on puzzling dimensions that lead Sherlock to investigate a local theatre. When the mystery deepens, London's greatest detective suddenly disappears. Where is he? Can John and Lestrade solve the case on their own? Crossover.
1. A Prelude

Hello, all! I'm revising this story a bit, hence the new prologue. Not a complete overall, but I do want to iron out as many problems and errors as I can before continuing with the fic. So enjoy this new intro and the improved chapters to come!

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A Prelude

"I am _not_ crazy!" Cecilia James insisted, her round, pale eyes wider than ever. She flung open the door to the theatre's auditorium, hands still shaking but firmly gripping the torch. "You'll see for yourself!"

"Calm down," cooed Antonio Sorelli, Cecilia's fellow cleaner, in his lilting Italian accent. "Let's be very logical about this. An anonymous person sends you a text after your first encounter with the ghost. And the text says, word for word: 'That was a warning.'"

"I know what you're going to say." Cecilia's gaze kept flitting to the darkest corners of the auditorium instead of locking directly on Antonio. Yet in spite her quivering voice, she spoke clearly enough to convey conviction in her words. "'How can a ghost send a text?' I tried to text a reply, but the message bounced back, saying the phone didn't have the service to receive texts. So I try calling the number that came with the text. All I get is a message saying the service is no longer in use, even though that text was sent out but a minute before. From a _dead_ phone!"

Antonio shook his head. He didn't think Cecilia had the imagination to make up such a ludicrous story; he thought it likely someone was pulling a prank. That kind of thing wasn't unheard of in the Palace Theatre. People seemed to enjoy making little booby traps in the dressing rooms and storage areas. Harmless fun, he'd thought at first, until an overturned bin let loose a giant scorpion, which ended up being a wind-up toy. _Mama mia_, that'd been one realistic toy, and it nearly cost him his trousers!

"Someone is pulling your leg," he assured her as they walked further into the auditorium. They used their torches to follow the curve of the red velvet aisle even though a ghost light stood burning onstage. It was so weak, though, and the shadows of the rest of the space were deep. Antonio was convinced he wasn't superstitious, but his nerves tingled with anxiety in that darkness. Seeing Cecilia shake so much reminded him of why she'd asked him to come, apart from her desire for a witness. He needed to provide moral support and protection. As things stood, though, the greatest danger to Cecilia's health was her own hysteria.

She flashed an angry glare at him for his remark. "I would know when I am being toyed with! I'm usually the skeptic! I always had doubts about ghosts when my mother would start talking about them. But _this – _something is going on. It isn't pranks anymore! And I'll be the one to prove it!"

As much as he worried for her, Antonio had to give Cecilia credit for her mettle. She was clearly terrified, but she sported a tenacity to not let this ghost – whoever it may really be – scare her away. In a way, he was the one who felt safe in her presence. He stayed close and shined the torch in as many places as he could while Cecilia trained hers on the floor.

The auditorium felt so much bigger in the dark. He didn't like it, mostly because it was just an illusion, albeit a powerful one. Antonio forced his senses to return the space to its proper proportions, but he still felt as though he were walking inside the mouth of a giant whale, and that somehow he would suddenly be swallowed up and taken down into an even deeper darkness filled with the hot, foul smell of gastric acid and decaying bodies. The ghost light alone disrupted the analogy.

The pair reached the stairs on the right side of the stage. The wooden planks groaned beneath their feet like the imagined monsters that lived under beds and inside closets. Antonio's heartbeat slowed a trifle when they reached the stage. It comforted him being on the same platform as the ghost light. "Well," he said loudly to fight the theatre's crushing silence, "that is enough exploring for one night. The ghost light is very likely keeping your friend away."

Cecilia looked around some more before answering. Her head still quaked involuntarily. It did that even when she appeared for the most part calm, which made discerning when she was afraid or not afraid difficult. Her round eyes, light blue like early-morning sky, moved with the frantic energy of a squirrel. "No," she whispered. She turned her thin body, dressed in a long pink sweater, a white turtleneck and a high-waist lavender skirt, upstage and away from the ghost light. "This way."

"Please, Cecilia," begged Antonio, "no more tonight. Your ghost is not going to appear."

Cecilia apparently blocked out his comment, for she walked slowly toward the left-hand wing of the backstage without giving him a fleeting glance. Antonio, quite tired of this expedition and shivering without good reason, caught up to her and took her gently by the elbow. She whirled around and shined the torch in his face.

"Gah!" Antonio swatted the torch away. "What is wrong with you? This ghost nonsense is making you _matto_. The ghost does not exist, _capisce_? It is all just nonsense and—"

The ghost light went out. The auditorium succumbed to a sheet of blackness that only their still operating torches broke through. That didn't stop Antonio's heart from pounding like a timpani.

"What did I tell you?" Cecilia's whispers, though tremulous with fright, had an edge of ecstatic excitement that scared Antonio more than the prospect of seeing a ghost. She escaped from his grip and walked briskly toward the wing. "We must be onto him!"

"Cecilia!" Antonio pursued his fanatical co-worker into the throat of the stage. Not a single light was on now. One would think there would be other ghost lights on in case the main one burned out. Antonio fastened his mind so firmly on this idea that he didn't notice for many seconds Cecilia standing still, mouth open and eyes so wide that the whites could be seen from ten meters away. When Antonio did finally see her, the natural question of "What is it?" flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He knew in his gut what it was she saw. Not specifically, but in a broad sense. He didn't want to look where she was looking, which was up. When someone is looking up at something with a gaping expression, like a terrified goldfish, the cause is usually very unpleasant.

But the agony of not knowing what she saw soon overrode his fear of the thing itself, whatever it was. Antonio turned and gazed up, telling himself that it was nothing. As soon as he laid eyes on it, his heart froze and the rational side of his mind went silent.

A body hung by the neck from a rope tied to the flies. Not a dummy, as Antonio's eyes were familiar with the dummies the crew used in productions. Or if it was, it looked painfully realistic for a dummy. It wore in a man's evening suit. A nice suit, probably Italian, stitched together from a fine black fabric that rivalled the darkness in shade. As if to purposely contrast this lovely clothing item, the body itself looked well decomposed. Strands of thin, dark hair rested limply against the large skull. The skin of the head had a yellow tone, like it was rotting, and it sported patches of discolouration all over. The lips were drawn back to expose large, grey teeth, and the eyes were so sunken in he couldn't see the orbs from that distance. The nose was entirely gone. The hands sported a similar coluor, but unlike the shrivelled head, the fingers were bloated from blood and other fluids draining into the hanging appendages. Their bulbous ends had turned purple and blue.

Antonio would have vomited had that been all there was to the corpse. When its head suddenly jerked to life, the cleaner's body stayed paralysed. The decomposing head moved slowly, surveying its surroundings, even the curious rope that held it hostage. Then it looked down at the two cleaners. Their torches lit it up against the shadowed curtains. The corners of the half-disintegrated mouth curled up into a smile. Bluish-black gums came into sight.

Cecilia began to back up toward Antonio. She shook like a dying leaf in a vicious winter gust. Antonio's head began to swim, and his vision started to grow fuzzy. He reached for Cecilia's shoulders, yet his eyes couldn't leave the corpse. Only when the body turned translucent, and then faded away altogether, did he emerge from his spellbound state, and as a result fall to the ground. The hollow _thunk_ of his collapse reverberated in the auditorium. Cecilia's hunched-over figure and frantic pleas faded away with everything else.


	2. Paper Trail

I originally posted this in the Sherlock section, but then I reasoned that it wasn't fair to make people who enjoy this crossover sift through SO many Sherlock fics to find this kind of story. So, here you go.

Disclaimer: None of the characters in the following work belong to me, with the exception of OCs. They are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Gaston Leroux (even if the original characters are in the public domain. Give credit where credit is due).

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Chapter 1: Paper Trail

When he heard the frantic rustle of papers as he opened the door, John felt his gut plummet to his feet. He closed his eyes. Oh, God, _please_ let it not be as bad as he imagined it right now.

With a mental groan that echoed the aging hinges, John pushed the door the rest of the way open. It could have been worse. Morning sunlight illuminated the mess of newspapers like it were a blanket of snow. The pile concentrated itself around the table in the middle of the room. It still looked like they'd been hit by a paper hurricane, but he could remember one incident where the whole floor had been lined with paper for the sake of an experiment involving sulphuric acid. Sherlock needed to test how quickly a man could transport an open container of it across the room while keeping spill to a minimum. Sherlock had the foresight, for once, to avoid damaging Mrs Hudson's floor as best he could.

The papers seemed to serve not nearly as useful a purpose this time. The tall, curly-haired man responsible for the hodgepodge of sheets sat at the table, laptop open but eyes pinned on an immense pile of clippings which he appeared to be sorting, and then discarding, without any thought as to where the paper landed. A few pieces found their way into a neater pile next to the laptop. John deduced that the clippings held some importance. He couldn't guess the subject of interest nor why Sherlock hadn't bought a scanner to upload clippings to his computer. It would at least keep things in better order in their living space, and it would probably facilitate the detective's task.

John sighed and stepped across the threshold, then closed the door behind him with care. "Has something come up? Or are you looking at old cases out of nostalgia and boredom?"

"Did you get the shopping?" Sherlock did not deter from his task, not even to peek at his flatmate.

"Yes," John grumbled. Sherlock's habit of deferring his questions didn't bother John as much as it did a little over a year ago, when he first moved to 221B Baker Street. Not _quite_ as much. John sighed gruffly and headed into the kitchen, hefting the plastic bag of much-needed food.

"A little of both, but your first guess was closer," called Sherlock as John placed the two bags on the counter top. "I need a second opinion."

John extracted a few packets of pre-made dinners from one bag. "Really?" he asked, almost missing the request as he opened the fridge and threw a puzzled look over the collection of jars and vials filled with a colourful array of liquids. They were all labelled with strange symbols and acronyms John couldn't decipher. While his curiosity was mildly piqued, he figured it better not to ask what they were for. One of them contained a bright, translucent yellow substance that looked like urine. John wrinkled his nose. It was still better than a severed head or fingers.

"Look at these for me and tell me what you think." John looked back to see Sherlock waving a bundle of clippings in one hand and smiling at him. Ah, yes, the smile he often used to persuade people to do things for him, which was effective most of the time. Either that or it _annoyed_ the intended target. Right now the effect was mixed.

"Just let me take care of the shopping first," said John. Not like Sherlock could have _helped_ or anything. But what did he expect? He kept unpacking and stashing cans of beans and soup, frozen bags of pasta and a case of beer (he would need it in the near future) as quickly as possible.

Sherlock dropped the smile. "Fine. Just hurry. By the way, the scale is broken, so stop worrying. You've only gained three pounds."

John paused as he started unloading the second bag, his hand touching the cardboard carton of milk. He whipped a startled look at Sherlock. "What?"

"The milk carton is red instead of green – you bought skimmed instead of semi-skimmed. You wouldn't normally worry about your weight unless you thought you gained an excessive amount." Sherlock rattled off his deduction in a dry, rapid-fire way that John knew belied his childish enjoyment.

The doctor let out a short, incredulous laugh. "All right. Now the only mystery is how the scale broke in the first place."

"It's no mystery," said Sherlock, turning back to the laptop screen. "I broke it. By accident, of course. A weight-distribution experiment. Didn't go _quite_ as expected." A hesitant pause. "Sorry I forgot to mention it."

"Or replace it," John remarked under his breath. But at least his friend apologised, which was miraculous by itself. He finished putting everything away, once again facing the mysterious vials in the fridge, and again fighting the urge to enquire about their purpose.

Even after a year, Sherlock could still catch him by surprise with uncanny and unwarranted observations like that. Not to mention the unorthodox experiments that popped up out of nowhere throughout the flat. John continued to experience a measure of dread every time he opened the fridge. And who could blame him? He _had_ encountered several nasty surprises, a severed head being just one of many.

When he completed his task, John came back to the den and saw Sherlock still holding the newspaper clips in his right hand, though his eyes were practically married to the computer screen. John reached for the clippings. To his renewed shock, Sherlock snapped them away to reach for a copy of _The Guardian _on the table. He then handed the whole lot to John without looking at him. "Near the bottom. The one circled in red."

John spent the ten minutes going through his assigned reading material. The circled article from _The Guardian_, dated yesterday, ran with the title: "Baghdad prison break-in, 2 casualties". Just two casualties? That seemed oddly low. The article explained how a major drug cartel in Iraq organized a break-in to free several of its members, many of whom faced capital punishment. It'd been an unprecedented success. When the authorities looked into how it was done, they found that the entire security network had been compromised with an unidentified code-scrambling device. It self-destructed after fulfilling its purpose.

Reading the account raised the hairs on John's neck and arms. A device that could shut down an entire prison security system was the stuff of Bond films. Such a weapon – that's exactly what it was, even if it was non-lethal – shouldn't exist in real life.

After digesting the first article, John reviewed the clippings. The titles ran:

"Puzzling burglary at the Louvre"

"Chemical weapons disappear from German laboratory"

"UFO sightings in the Ukraine on the rise"

Sherlock had written in the respective dates of the articles with the same red pen; the long-dried ink suggested he had done so at the time he filed them. The art burglary story took place last year, the chemical weapons theft three years ago, and the UFO sightings back in 2005. The stories with the robberies involved high-tech wizardry of some kind that local authorities couldn't explain. In the last article, witnesses described the UFOs as resembling missiles or rockets, but no government laid claim to the alleged weapons.

John was nearing the end of the UFO article a second time when Sherlock said, "Well? What do you think?"

He was testing him again. John leaned back in his comfy chair, the Union Jack pillow nestled behind his head, as he gathered his thoughts. "Well, on the surface they don't seem to share much in common. They all took place in different parts of the world, and the crimes . . . well, the _incidents_ are different in nature."

Sherlock nodded and kept tapping at the keyboard. "But?"

"But . . ." John glanced over the articles again and puckered his lips. ". . . they all have something to do with complex technology. _Illicit _complex technology."

"Good. Anything else?"

John scratched the back of his neck. His brain worked at full throttle. "I suppose they could be linked by the people who provided the technology, although it'd be a remarkable coincidence."

"Remarkable," interrupted Sherlock, "but not impossible. Keep going."

Suddenly the doctor remembered a question he'd wanted to ask. "Do we know if any of these past cases were solved?"

"As far as my sources indicate, the technological mysteries are still open."

"All right. Then the culprit or culprits are still at large. So if they were responsible for these past cases, they could be responsible for this prison break-in."

"Very good, John. You are scintillating today." Sherlock turned around in his chair and flashed John another grin. "I told you your deduction skills would improve with practice."

As flattered as he was tempted to feel, John just chuckled doubtfully. "I'm not sure I've deduced much. After all, I have no idea who's behind it."

"True, but it's a start. You forgot to mention that if the cases are linked, the people responsible must have international connections. That's a given. What really interests me is where this operation is based. Is it a vast network of manufacturers, or a single production source? Also, I should tell you that the UFO article was the earliest record of its kind. I have about twelve other cases that seem to bear a connection to the ones you have, but these are the most intriguing. That means this operation has only been in existence for about six or seven years."

John's brows pulled together. "But if that's so, why haven't you looked into this sooner?"

"I _have_." With a sudden jerk, Sherlock turned back in his chair, grabbed his laptop and stood up to make two long strides to reach John's chair. He shoved the machine onto the doctor's lap. John saw Sherlock's blog on the screen at an entry for the 21st of April, 2008. It read:

_The missing weapons in Germany resulted from the implementation of a code-descrambling device that allowed an agent of the Red Hand Defenders to infiltrate the main laboratory and confiscate several toxic chemical compounds. The agent was identified, found and arrested thanks to the peculiar chemical residue on the laboratory floor, which was later found on a pair of boots left by the agent in front of the door to his hotel room. Chemical compounds remain missing; the agent confessed that they were disguised with an artificial substance designed to temporarily alter their scent and texture. Agent was unable to disclose the original provider of the decrypting device and the artificial substance._

"That's it?" John wasn't sure whether to laugh or blush at the brevity of Sherlock's entry, so scant and dry compared to his own narratives. John didn't consider his writing at all flowery or overly loquacious – military training had instilled in him the value of straightforward language to convey a point. But he still managed to draft entries several paragraphs long in order to capture the drama of detective work. That was what made the cases memorable for him.

He shouldn't have been surprised, though, and he wished he had thought before speaking. Sherlock stared at him disapprovingly. "What do you mean, 'that's it'? You don't like that I don't embellish my accounts with pointless descriptions of where I ate or what my particular conversations with witnesses and suspects entailed? I focus on what's important, John: the facts. They're what I build everything on. Without them, deduction would be impossible."

"All right, I get it. So you half-solved the case."

"Yes." Sherlock's eyebrow twitched a bit and his eyes narrowed. John smiled. Seeing Sherlock annoyed reassured and amused him. It made the detective a touch more human. "I couldn't glean any more information from the man. The German authorities wanted to deport him back to Ireland straight away. They also found the stolen chemicals in a man's suitcase that was switched to a plane heading for Ulster. Once that loose end was tied up, they were satisfied and considered the case closed." He actually started to grind his teeth. "I haven't been called in for any of the other related cases. Sometimes I wonder if it's the doing of the people behind this."

"I think that's what they call paranoia," remarked John with a well-meaning grin. In Sherlock's self-made profession, however, paranoia was not necessarily uncalled for. "Isn't it possible that these cases aren't related at all? There's enough room for coincidence."

Sherlock straightened to his full height and sighed. "That may be. If so, I'll be sorely disappointed. The monotony of ordinary existence is grating away at my mind again."

This statement nearly brought John to his feet as well. "We just solved a case last week!"

"The thrill of solving your garden-variety blackmailing case can only linger for so long!" The frustrated tone of fatal boredom had crept into Sherlock's voice. He reclaimed his computer and walked to the sofa on the opposite side of the room. More like dragged his feet, except when he stepped up onto the table. Even then he made his gait appear laboured. He plopped down on his back, laptop still in hand.

Try as he might, John still couldn't completely understand his friend. Here the man had been mere minutes before furiously throwing papers all over the place and searching the Internet for possible connections between these odds mysteries. Now he was on the sofa, as if he'd been there all day, the light of the screen casting shadows along the ridges of his angular face and making his complexion look even paler than usual. Sherlock's moods could change so quickly it was a wonder John didn't get whiplash.

Their only hope was to pick up the conversation again. "Well," John said, "why these mysteries, then? Why bother reviewing them if no one is doing anything about them?"

"With nothing else to do, I have to be prepared for a windfall." Sherlock took a second to straighten out his jacket with one hand while balancing the computer on his chest. "Besides, I thought I should run it by you to make sure I wasn't imaging connections." To ensure that John wasn't gawking or giggling, he threatened him with a pointed look. "That _can_ happen from time to time."

John gave in to another smile. A brief silence followed, accompanied by the occasional tap on the keyboard. Maybe they could go to an exhibit or something. It wasn't a murder or a break-in, but museum exhibits could hold Sherlock's attention long enough with the appropriate subject matter. John thought about pulling out his own laptop to do a quick search of what was on in the city.

As he stood, Sherlock's mobile rang on the table.

The laptop flew out of Sherlock's hands to the other end of the sofa. The detective bounded off the piece of furniture, cleared the table, and snatched the phone half a second after he landed on the ground. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered calmly. John took some deep breaths and put his hand to his chest, just to make sure his heart was still beating.

"Where?" asked Sherlock. After a few seconds his eyebrows knotted together. "A mugging? But . . . ah. I see. All right, then. Give me ten minutes." He clicked the phone off and looked up John. The old spark returned to his eyes. "Lestrade. Stacey Street. Shall we?"

John blinked and lowered his hand. "Did you say 'mugging'? Why would the police need you for a mugging?"

A half-smirk graced Sherlock Holmes' lips. "Because it's the best kind of mugging: one that isn't really a mugging, but made to look like one." Quicker than John could blink again, Sherlock tucked the phone into his jacket and shot for the coat hanger in the kitchen to grab both his and his flatmate's jackets, despite the fact it was late May. "We can put aside our mystery techno-wiz for today. I'm sure he's in no hurry to be caught. And, with any luck, he might pull another stunt after we finish this case."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, one mystery at a time!" John tried to pull on his jacket as fast as Sherlock put on his and tied the scarf around his throat. "You act as if you already have this new one in the bag. We haven't even spoken to the victim yet."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why would we do that?"

John returned the expression. "You said it was a mugging. One-on-one robbery."

The taller man squinted at his friend for a moment. Then his face opened up with comprehension. "Oh! Sorry, I meant a _murder_ as a result of a mugging. I thought I made that clear."

Again, the hairs on John's neck stood up. "Oh," he uttered, then cleared his throat. "Well, then, I guess trying to talk to a corpse won't do us much good, will it?"

"You know my methods, John," said Sherlock as he headed for the door while grinning smugly. "Those who said 'dead men tell no tales' had no eye for observation."

John said nothing in response, but in his mind he pointed out that pirates probably have little use for deductive reasoning.


	3. Keys and Cufflinks

(Ignore my coyness in the previous chapter about what the crossover is. I just moved the fic to this section.)

I want to give a very big thanks to Eyebrows2, my lone reviewer and guide to the world of British language and culture. :D I've made corrections to the last chapter based on his/her feedback, and I am deeply grateful for it. Ta! Feedback from all readers is always appreciated, especially if you're British and notice when I, in my American ignorance, muck up grammar or facts due to insufficient research. Hopefully that won't happen too often. Keep your fingers crossed.

Disclaimer: Except for OCs and general plot, I own none of the following. It belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, Doyle and Leroux.

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Chapter 2: Keys and Cufflinks

Stacey Street came to an abrupt end after rounding the corner of the gated Phoenix Garden, which stood with its lush verdure next to St Giles-in-the-Fields. From this stump of a cal-de-sac, there extended two avenues: one a concealed alley that snaked through tightly-packed brick flats and latched onto the backside of a cluster of pubs, restaurants and shops; the other Flitcroft Street, a straight alley that linked Stacey directly with Charing Cross Road.

Sherlock and John, after stepping out of their cab next to the Phoenix Theatre, followed Flitcroft Street. Despite the alley's length and narrowness, both men could spy the yellow tape blocking the intersection at the other end. The chatter of scratchy voices over radio walkie-talkies soon met their ears, accompanied by the silent flashing blues and reds of police siren lights. A balmy breeze lightly caressed them, which made John question the necessity of their layers on such a lovely day. What they saw when they entered Stacey Street, however, brought on a chill in John's blood.

A 6'3'' man in casual business attire lay on his back in the dead end. His head pointed toward the iron fence and short brick wall that separated the street from the community garden. His hair and moustache had for the most part turned grey. His tope overcoat lay open enough that John could see the blood-soaked front of his white shirt and dark blue blazer.

As they approached, a few coppers who had been milling about the crime scene suddenly cleared off, leaving only the familiar figure of DI Lestrade hovering by the feet of the corpse, hands in his coat pockets and a tired, morose expression on his face. John spied another individual in a blue sterile jumpsuit also lingering near the body: the pouty-faced forensics expert, Anderson.

"Morning, Anderson," called Sherlock with unwarranted projection. "Here we are again. I didn't think you liked getting up this early."

"You're not drawing me in this time," Anderson snapped. "It's bad enough I agreed to let you come down here."

"Oh, really? I didn't realise you had a say in the matter. By the way, how is Sally doing?"

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. John nearly surprised himself when he noted the dark circles and slight redness and instantly concluded that Lestrade still had problems with drink. He shook his head. Maybe Sherlock really was rubbing off on him. Should he be pleased, or disturbed?

"I thought I told you," the DI groaned, "Sgt Donovan is on sabbatical right now."

"Really? How many is that now in the last year? I'd start being concerned for her health, Lestrade." Sherlock feigned concern.

"Why else do you think she's on sabbatical?" Anderson quipped. "And who do you think is the cause of it?"

Grey eyes sharpened on Anderson. "I see the paperwork for your divorce finally came through. My condolences." Sherlock's tone was anything but sympathetic.

Whether Anderson's face was turning red from rage or embarrassment John couldn't decide. "_No_. They didn't come through and it's _not your bloody business_." He turned his glare toward Lestrade. "I _told_ you we didn't need him here. He hasn't even looked at the body yet."

"You're right. My apologies," Sherlock said quickly.

All three of his companions reeled. John's eyebrows reared up. Lestrade and Anderson looked at each other, dumbfounded, while Sherlock knelt beside the corpse. He leaned over the man's face first before slowly moving down to the bullet hole in the chest. Suddenly he halted and grimaced. His nose twitched and his nostrils flared. A trace of the grimace remained as he nimbly searched the dead man's blazer and overcoat for any lose items or notable markings. At one point he tried to pull off the gold band from the ring finger of the man's left hand, but it was a tight fit. When several twists and tugs failed to free the ring from its owner, Sherlock relinquished the effort. After another few moments of looking over the corpse, he got to his feet and motioned for his friend to take a glance.

John knelt down by the victim's left shoulder. He leaned down and caught a whiff of a faint but pronounced stench. It smelled like a cocktail of alcohol and bodily excrement. John coughed but said nothing – it probably wasn't directly related to the cause of death. He peeled back the garments for a better look at the wound.

"Straight through the heart," he muttered aloud. "Given the precise placement of the shot and the size of the wound, the killer probably made the shot at close range with a handgun. About six hours since time of death."

"I've already determined those facts," declared Anderson.

It was a challenge ignoring the condescending tone and the implication that John's observations were redundant, but he wasn't about to enter a biting debate about his usefulness. He'd leave that to Sherlock.

"Anything else of note, John?" asked Sherlock. John could practically hear his friend's eyes burning holes in the prickly forensics expert. Brushing this rather amusing mental image aside, he widened his field of focus to the area directly around the body. It hadn't rained last night, yet the asphalt was clean of any blood that would have leaked from the wound. Gingerly he lifted the man by the shoulder to look at his back and the ground underneath. Even though he could see the second hole and large stain on the overcoat, there wasn't a speck of blood on the street.

"The angle suggests the bullet also passed through the lower left lung. Aside from what's on his clothes, there's no blood here."

"We _know_," snarled Anderson.

John gave Anderson a warning look. "Which means he must have been moved."

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "How was he moved, then?"

"He was probably dragged from someone's home," Anderson interjected before John could speak. "The murder was committed indoors, then the perpetrator dragged him out here and stole his wallet to make it look like a mugging."

"How do you explain that he is wearing his overcoat, then?" asked Sherlock tersely.

Anderson briefly became flustered, but he collected himself quickly. "He could have put on his coat with the intention of leaving the building right before he was shot."

John expected a smart remark from his friend, but Sherlock merely shrugged. Then he began taking in their surroundings, spinning in a slow, sweeping motion. The tails of his coat flared out. His eyes scoured the immediate buildings in their vicinity and the avenues connected to Stacey Street. When he appeared satisfied, he pulled out his phone and started typing on it. At the same time he addressed Lestrade. "Who found the body?"

"One of the cleaners at the Phoenix Theatre, when she came in for her morning shift." Lestrade nodded toward the gloomy, wooden backdoor of the red-brick establishment that stood a dozen steps away.

Feeling he had deduced all he could from the body at this time, John watched Sherlock and tried to guess where his queries would lead. He expected more questions about the theatre, but instead Sherlock said, "I wonder that no one in those flats over there saw it, or pedestrians entering from either of these alleys." The flats he referred to stood on New Compton Street, which intersected with Stacey Street at the other end. The Phoenix Garden sat in the middle of this odd quadrangle.

"At this distance, in the early morning and with this fence," said Lestrade, "they probably couldn't see the body from there. Not many people cut through this street in the early hours, either. All the establishments on the other side are closed by one and don't open 'til six at the earliest."

"So," said Sherlock after a moment's silence, his expression drawn but his eyes alight, "the killer knew this neighbourhood quite well, or well enough to know the habits of its residents and assess where and when to place the body without drawing attention. The question still remaining is 'how'."

"And why," John reminded him.

Sherlock waved a hand. "That'll come later." He strode back over to the body while studying the screen of the phone. He lowered it and stared at the corpse.

"That's why I called you in," said Lestrade. The DI seemed to be aware that Sherlock was only half-listening to him. "If it's not a mugging, we need to sort out how the murderer got him here."

"Joseph Gary," said Sherlock.

Lestrade and Anderson both started. John looked up in puzzlement. "Sorry?" he asked.

"The victim is Joseph Gary." Sherlock tucked his phone away.

Lestrade gave a bemused scoff. "How did you figure that out?"

Sherlock scrutinised the area again, only now he focused more on the ground. "A few things. His keys were the first clue."

"His keys?"

With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock stopped and turned toward the inspector. "They're in his trouser pocket. There are only two types of working men who carry a ring of keys on them: cleaners and office managers. Judging by his expensive attire, he more likely belonged to the second category. His hands aren't nearly calloused enough, either, and he cleans and trims his nails regularly. John, take a look at his cufflink."

John pulled back the left sleeves of the coat and blazer to reveal the cuff of the shirt. It sported a gold cufflink with a smiling mask as the stud.

"If you care to look," said Sherlock, "you'll see the other one is the tragedy mask."

John guffawed. "Bloody tacky. How did I not see that?"

"He's a theatre manager, then," continued Sherlock. "I did a search of theatre managers in the local area. I checked the Phoenix first – the manager is a woman. After St Martin's I checked the Palace Theatre, and _voilà_! Joseph Gary's name. I searched for a photo and found a match."

As if any of his listeners needed convincing (Anderson stood with a vexed expression and crossed arms), Sherlock held up the photograph of the victim on his phone to each man. When John took a look at it, he noticed the man was holding some kind of trophy and staring into the camera with a half-hearted smile concealed by the bushy moustache.

"Lucky hunch," grumbled Anderson at last.

"So," said Lestrade with some trepidation, "does this give us any idea of where he was murdered, or how he got here?"

Sherlock returned to the murdered manager and knelt down on the right side, across from John. Without warning, he wrestled off the two outer layers until the man's shirt-covered shoulder was exposed. Then he ripped open the seam that attached the right sleeve to the rest of the shirt.

"Hey!" shouted Anderson. He bolted over to Sherlock. "You're tampering with evidence!"

"What the hell are you doing?" inquired Lestrade less passionately.

"Look!" Although his invitation was open to anyone, Sherlock afforded John the first glance at his discovery. Halfway between the armpit and the top of the shoulder was an arc of four round, very faint bruises.

"Fingertips," said John instinctually.

Realising the point Sherlock was trying to make, Anderson huffed. "Yes, it would make sense that the murderer dragged the victim under the arms. What's your point?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he switched his attention to the feet of the manager. In a moment the man's right shoe and sock were off.

"It would have been heavy lifting for a group of men, let alone one," he said as he pushed up the manager's trouser leg to his knee. Sherlock lifted the leg, and John, Lestrade and Anderson followed his gaze to another set of fingertip-made bruises, including the thumb this time, around the calf. They were as light as those up top.

"So there were at least two people involved. Would you agree, Dr Watson?"

"Yes, definitely," said John. "And they must have started moving the body shortly after death, since these bruises managed to form as they carried him. Any blood still left in the body drained into his midsection, which is why his abdomen is bloated and the bruises are hardly noticeable."

Lestrade got down on the ground to examine both sets of bruises more closely. "All valid points," he conceded at last, "but that doesn't tell us anything about where he was or how far he was moved from the real crime scene. Can you give me anything—?"

When Lestrade looked up, Sherlock was gone from their company. John and Anderson noticed this as well and looked around. John spotted Sherlock walking down Stacey Street past the yellow tape, the cop car and the ambulance. His focus seemed to be on the alleys that connected Stacey with Charing Cross. He walked quickly and kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

"What is he doing?" asked Anderson. "What's he looking for?"

Sherlock disappeared around the corner, leaving Anderson's question unanswered for the moment. John, Anderson, and Lestrade exchanged stares. It was almost laughable – were they really so helpless, even useless, without Sherlock Holmes? John reminded himself that Sherlock's amazing brain must already be at work, and he would explain his actions soon enough. As irritating as his habits could be, Sherlock's capacity to make usually accurate deductions from the smallest details, and his choice to use this talent to bring criminals to justice, inspired John with enough respect and admiration to be abiding when the detective drove others to distraction. Maybe even homicide, if they felt bold enough. But Sherlock was as intimidating as he was clever; he had to worry about death threats from only the truly menacing figures of London's criminal underworld.

All right, that wasn't really a comforting thought. It did mean, however, that Anderson would not try anything, despite his increasing agitation.

John ran his eye over the body again for more clues. What else was there? The man had been ID-ed, and it was clear that he had been moved by two people. There appeared to be no other sign of a struggle. An idea suddenly popped into John's head, and he checked both of the man's wrists. Nope, no rope marks. He hadn't been restrained, either. So someone had him at gunpoint, and someone else was present. Was it an accidental encounter? A hit? Or did the killer threaten Mr Gary first?

The doctor's mind roamed in circles around these questions until he remembered something Sherlock once explained to him during another case: "If you want to logically deduce how and why someone commits a crime, you have imagine _being_ them first."

It made sense. John stood up and took a step back. _Okay_, he thought, _pretend you're the murderer. Pretend, for argument's sake, that it was intentional. Given the angle of bullet entry and exit, I either shot him from in the front from above, or in the back from below. If in the front, and given his height, he must have been sitting or kneeling on the floor. That's possible. If in the back, I had to be the one sitting or kneeling. But why would I be on the floor if I have the gun and there's someone with me? There's no sign of struggle, either, so do I rule out that possibility? Maybe, but . . ._

John scratched his head with a sigh. Sherlock's brain worked much faster when sifting through these hypothetical scenarios, and John was already exhausted. Maybe Anderson had a few ideas to offer.

"Anderson?"

The forensic expert, who paced restlessly, turned toward him. "Yeah?"

"You said you believe that the murder took place indoors. Why do you think that?"

Anderson's eyes narrowed to two dark slits. "Why do you care? You're with _him_."

John smiled awkwardly. He could see where this was going. "It never hurts to get another take on the evidence. That's why he has me come along with him."

"Really? I thought you were here to be his yes-man."

The good doctor winced at this comment, both for its harsh tone and its incisive accuracy. "Well . . . yes, maybe I am sometimes. But only because he's usually right. I mean, who's kidding who?"

Anderson harrumphed.

"Cut him a break, Anderson," said Lestrade. "We could use the help."

Putting up his hands in front of him, John faced his palms toward Anderson. "It's all right. You don't have to share anything if you don't want to. It doesn't matter, anyway."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and focused on the corpse again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anderson go stock stiff. In his head, John began the countdown: _Five . . . four . . ._

"Let's just hope Sherlock rejoins us in the near future," said Lestrade as he looked down Flitcroft Street to catch a glimpse of the roving detective.

Even from two metres away, John could see Anderson's jaw clench.

_Three . . . two . . . one . . ._

"Fine!" Anderson announced, throwing up his hands. "If you must know, it seems to me that the body could not have been moved very far. He's tall and bulky, after all. And we're sandwiched between Soho and Covet Garden – not the ideal place to murder someone and then drag his body around if you don't want to be seen. So the murder must have happened indoors."

John held back a smile and nodded encouragingly. "Good point. So you think the deed was done in one of these buildings?"

"There have been no reports as of yet of gunfire in this area," Lestrade inputted.

"Everyone was probably asleep at that hour," suggested John.

"Exactly," said Anderson. "And the shot could have been muffled, depending on the location and the conditions of the real crime scene."

John nodded again. "But in which of these buildings do you think the murder could have occurred?"

Anderson took a moment to look around, and John and Lestrade followed suit until the other man spoke again.

"I can't say for sure, but it seems more likely that the man was killed either in the Phoenix Theatre or in one of those flats." Anderson pointed toward the covered alley.

"Why do you think that?" asked John.

"Both locations present the fewest opportunities of being seen from the main street. The murderer, or murderers, would've had to worry only about Flitcroft Street, and it's so long and narrow that there's a small chance of being spotted from the other side. The further you go towards New Compton, the more side streets you have to worry about."

"Well, colour me shocked!" cried Sherlock.

The three men spun sharply toward the covered alley. Sherlock emerged from the shadows. The tunnel amplified his booming voice. "Is it possible that you've actually grown a few brain cells, Anderson? Or are you starting to pay attention to me when I talk?"

Anderson struggled to not lose his temper. "Where did you go?"

Sherlock mocked a disappointed expression. It was almost adorable. "Oh, and you were doing so well. Easy come, easy go, I suppose."

"What _have_ you been doing, Sherlock?" Lestrade reiterated. He placed his hands on his waist in a stance of growing impatience.

"Just chasing a hypothesis, as you lot were. The sound carries extraordinary well."

"And?" Lestrade pressed him. "What have you got?"

"Nothing conclusive yet. I suggest you call upon Mrs Gary and deliver the unhappy news of her husband's demise. Text me when you do. I have some questions for her that should be answered as soon as possible. Also, can you keep the press at bay for a while?"

"How do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't tell them yet that it's not a mugging. Under the circumstances, it would be helpful to give the culprits a false sense of safety."

Lestrade's face tightened even further. "I can't lie to the press if we know this was not a mugging. If I do, both they and the chief will eat me alive."

"Tell them you can make no definitive claims of whether it's a mugging or not, but that a preliminary investigation is under way, and leave it at that. If you make them believe there's nothing significant about it, they'll pay it little mind. No harm in blindsiding the press when it's to our advantage." Sherlock made another disingenuous smile that caused crinkles around his eyes. Lestrade seemed ready to object again, but he cut him off. "But, first, talk to Mrs Gary. Keep chasing Anderson's theory, too, if you must. Undoubtedly one of us will catch the tail-end of something before the day is out. John?"

John stood but hesitated. He watched his friend leave the way he re-entered the street.

"Why do I put up with him?" muttered Lestrade to himself.

Shaken from his thoughts by this aggravated pronouncement, John couldn't resist replying. He had every sympathetic feeling in the world for Lestrade. He had sympathy for anyone who was willing to put up with Sherlock, even under duress. Still, Lestrade brought Sherlock into this investigation with an all too keen familiarity with the consequences.

John regarded the DI with a gentle look. "Because you're desperate."

Lestrade snapped his gaze at John. After a few tense seconds, he erupted into a harsh chuckle. "Yeah, you're right." He threw a glance at the vanishing detective. "Thanks for the reminder."

The half-facetious tone made John grin. "Anything to be of help."


	4. A Hidden Route

I made a few significant changes in this chapter (although they will probably go unnoticed by most readers) in light of what happens much later on. I also just fixed a few details for greater verisimilitude. By the way, thank you everyone for all your reviews so far. I want to give a special thanks to Sparkly-Magic who pointed out one of the flubs in this particular chapter. And, really, you are all awesome for putting up with my crazy fic. ;)

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Chapter 3: A Hidden Route

Even in the morning light, the flats that crowded around the alley extending from Stacey Street were dark and dull and mostly shadowed by each other. This made the street itself a place of twilight even during the day, except maybe at noon. The place had a gloomy atmosphere. John wondered why someone would prefer to live here out of all the housing options in London. Was it cheaper? Not necessarily; it stood at the intersection of the West End and Covet Garden. According to Lestrade, there were several shops and pubs on the other side of this architectural knot. John also saw that they were looking at the backside of these flats, which left a more unwelcoming impression on him than their fronts might have. The characterless brick walls and shuttered windows had only rickety fire escapes for ornamentation.

"Mind explaining where you went just now?" John asked when he caught up with Sherlock, his eyes still examining the buildings looming above them. He'd barely caught his breath before the question jumped out of his mouth.

"I walked down Charing Cross Road until I reached Denmark Street, then cut through one of the pubs from the other side back to here." Whatever his reason had been to leave the crime scene so quickly, it no longer held sway. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the road as he spoke.

"And may I ask _why_?"

Sherlock motioned with his eyes to John's feet. "Look down."

A rush of annoyance overtook John at his friend's refusal to answer a simple question, but he did as he was asked. Well, as he was _told_. He looked at his feet. A manhole about half a meter wide rested beneath them.

John looked up with the same half-annoyed, half-befuddled expression. "So?"

"Didn't you notice the smell?"

"Smell?" John needed a second for the question to register. Oh, right. The repulsive odour emitting from the corpse that didn't seem connected to his state or the cause of death. "You mean the alcohol and . . ."

"And?" Sherlock urged with a nod.

John cleared his throat. "Well, he smelled like he'd been in contact with . . . sick and shite."

"Exactly. I'm glad you follow."

John sighed. He'd heard that statement a few times before, and it always received the same response, to his dismay. "No, actually. Had he been in a pub prior to being killed?"

Sherlock furrowed his forehead at what must have sounded like an outrageous conclusion. "No, no! Think, John. Remember what you saw."

"What I saw?"

"Yes. And what you _didn't_ see."

With another sigh, John closed his eyes. He visualised the murdered man again. It was a shame he didn't have photographic memory, but the image was fresh enough that he could recall most of the details.

"Have you got it in your head?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes," said John.

"Now focus on his clothes. Do you see anything?"

"Aside from the blood, you mean?"

"Obviously." A touch more force entered Sherlock's voice. It betrayed his thinning patience. John reminded himself not to take it personally. The man still needed to learn to go easy on others. Not everyone could be a genius, even with effort.

John inhaled slowly to help him concentrate. "Okay. It was a white shirt."

"What shade of white?" Sherlock prodded with an even tone.

Did it really matter? "Plain white. Pristine." Then he saw it. Suddenly his brain focused in on a detail he never thought he would've recalled in a hundred years. The shirt _was_ pristine white except for some spots on the shirt front. He must have taken them for sweat stains before.

"There was some yellow discoloration on the shirt. It looked like . . . droplet stains."

John felt Sherlock's hands clamp on his shoulders, which startled him into opening his eyes.

"Exactly. And nothing else."

"No, I didn't see anything else. Is that significant?"

"It tells us volumes, John." The detective's voice grew more tense and animated as he spoke. He was a dog eager to follow a rabbit's scent trail. He released his hold on John's shoulders. "We already know the body was placed here to make it look like a mugging. Who's to say the criminals wouldn't also think to throw on some alcohol to make it look as if Gary had been intoxicated at the time of his attack?"

"How can we say he wasn't, though? It was late at night, and he was in an area with lots of pubs. He could have spilled some on himself while drinking."

Sherlock waved a dismissing hand. "We would have seen more higher up on his shirt. And there were brown stains in his moustache; he'd been drinking coffee to stay awake. It's unlikely he would've have been drinking coffee in a pub, and it's _highly_ unlikely he would have been imbibing both types of beverages separately. A man like Gary would have spiked his coffee instead."

John massaged the back of his head, as if that would help him retain all this information. "What does this have to do with the manhole I'm standing on?"

On cue, Sherlock took a step back and gave a knowing smile. "Take a look for yourself." He pulled out his retractable magnifying glass from his coat pocket and handed it to John.

Reluctantly, John accepted it. "What am I looking for, exactly?"

"I think you'll know it when you see it."

_Dammit, Sherlock_. John grumbled as he knelt on the less than sanitary ground to examine the even less sanitary metal lid. Sherlock, to John's gratitude, knelt down as well. "Focus on the rim."

To his surprise, John saw what Sherlock was talking about relatively quickly. All along the outside edge of the lid's rim there was an accumulation of powdery, unsettled dirt and grime. The gap between the lid and the hole, tiny as it was, should have been packed with filth, but all the build-up had been loosened. John stated his observations aloud.

"The lid has been disturbed in the last twelve hours," said Sherlock. "Now do you see the connection?"

"What connection? People work in the sewers all the time. Maybe there was some problem in this area and a few sewage workers opened the lid to get down there."

Sherlock flung out his arms in a sudden, violent motion. "Do you see any signs of recent construction activity around here? Even if we consider that possibility, doesn't it strike you as a remarkable coincidence?"

"_What _is a coincidence?"

This time the detective released an exasperated groan. "Honestly, has the well of human imagination dried up? I know you see it, John – you're just not willing to comprehend it!"

"My failure to understand your mental leaps is not intentional." This debate was getting them nowhere, and John preferred to stand if they weren't going anywhere. With his knees creaking and popping, he came to his feet and shot Sherlock an irritated scowl. Could they take this conversation to somewhere more private? And possibly with food? He'd had a light breakfast that was rapidly being digested. His stomach would start growling soon for more sustenance. With Sherlock on a case now, of course, the chances of gaining said sustenance were severely reduced.

"Of course it's intentional, even if not consciously so. You don't trust yourself to make assertions when the evidence is right before you. You have to expand your mind to all possible indications of what you see, and then select the one that best fits the circumstances."

Despite the lecturing nature of Sherlock's tone, John could also hear his struggle to be patient and instructive and not just condescending. The quietest stirring of guilt and sympathy welled up in John. He bit his lip and relaxed his shoulders. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Sherlock, but . . . couldn't you just _tell_ me what the connection is? It would save us a lot of time."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, opened them and released air through his nose. "Fine. There are no markings on Gary's clothes to indicate that he had actually been in contact with, as you say, 'sick and shite'. The fact that the odour is on him, however, tells us that he was in a place where he would have been in close proximity to those substances. Which leads us to . . ."

"My God!" John gasped and screwed his eyes shut. "He was in the sewers!"

Sherlock gave an exaggerated nod.

It was one of those moments when John wanted to kick himself. He'd been just one step away from seeing it. But that wasn't anything new. And the glory of finally understanding the link between the two facts was swift to fade as the bizarre implications of it became apparent.

"But why? You mean his killers _carried_ him through the sewers, then came up through this manhole and deposited his body in the alley?"

"Exactly."

John had to blink and shake his head. It fit together in terms of the evidence, but it didn't seem logical. "Why make such an effort to move the body? It couldn't have been convenient."

"It wasn't." Sherlock's thick eyebrows drew together again. The wheels in his brain started to turn with effort, judging by his expression. "If they had access to the sewers, you'd think they . . ." He put his hands together and went silent. John awaited the end of the sentence, but none came. Sherlock was too submerged in his own thoughts. Not wishing to disturb him, John kept silent but alert.

Suddenly, a loud gurgle erupted from his stomach. In response, his face turned a subtle shade of red. Sherlock snapped back to attention. "Oh. I didn't realise you were peckish. You should have said something."

"Nevermind that," said John, mentally cursing his metabolism. "What does this mean for the case?"

A breeze cut through the alley. Sherlock closed up his coat. "Regarding the sewers? It means that, as usual, Anderson and the police are off the mark. Gary wasn't killed around here. The murderers transported him a considerable distance through the sewers."

"Why a considerable distance?"

"Why else would they need to use the sewers? To get around unseen. That much Anderson did manage to fathom, surprisingly enough."

John looked at the manhole. The lid must have been heavy – not so much that a single man couldn't lift it, but the man in question would have to be pretty strong. That seemed to match the profile of Gary's killers – strong individuals capable of carrying a 6'3'' man weighing about 13 stones from one place to another without drag.

"Well, nothing more to do here." Sherlock turned back toward where they originally came and resumed a brisk pace.

"What? Oh!" Caught off guard by this sudden decision, John still managed to catch up with Sherlock in a matter of seconds. "Back to Baker Street, then?"

"Oh, no! Not when the trail is so fresh." A quiver of excitement entered Sherlock's voice – a familiar sign of heightened interest.

"You know where the murder happened?"

"Nope. But that doesn't mean we should kick back and wait around for Lestrade to do his part."

By now an ambulance had arrived to take Gary's body away. John squinted to adjust to the sudden brightness, but he could spot Lestrade's pacing figure before Sherlock sharply grabbed him by the crook of his elbow and directed him back down Flitcroft Street.

"Then where are we going?" asked John as he again laid eyes on the increasing traffic of Charing Cross Road. "What can we do at this point?"

"The Palace Theatre, John. There are two facets of a man's life that tell us everything significant about him: his work, and his home. While Lestrade is investigating the latter, we'll look into the former."


	5. A View of the Palace

This chapter has been revised, but as usual feel free to point out any errors, inconsistencies or other such grievances you may have.

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Chapter 4: A View of the Palace

On the one hand, the Palace Theatre exemplified the old, red-brick buildings characteristic of Victorian play houses – as far as John knew. He'd never claim any extensive knowledge of London theatres, but this building's facade had the spirit of a bygone age. It was proud – a little haughty, even – and took up more than even his peripheral vision could hold when they stood directly before the entrance. The theatre loomed above all the other buildings, surpassing them in height and breadth. Intimidating as it was, the facade stirred in John not what he would call national pride, but a certain nostalgia that warmed his admittedly patriotic heart.

The emotion was intruded upon by the presence of a ten-foot tall glittering cut-out of a high-heel shoe, and the words _Priscilla Queen of the Desert _in shimmering neon pink underneath. In this case, old and new didn't mesh well in John's eyes.

"Charming," he muttered.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, his eyes indifferently scanning the theatre front.

"Nothing."

John had never been to the Palace Theatre before, but he knew enough about _Priscilla_ to understand the significance of the sign. The startling contrast between the show and its venue almost hurt his eyes.

"I wonder how long it's been here," John mused aloud.

"I believe it premiered last spring," Sherlock remarked in monotone.

John barely caught the remark over the growling of car engines and the general cacophony of traffic in Cambridge Circus behind him. _I probably shouldn't ask how he knows that_.

He regarded the entire facade again. Enormous and slightly concave, it made John think it was going to fold in around him. Two dozen arched windows loomed above the marquee. The rounded arches framing them emphasized the Romanesque grandeur of the edifice's design. In fact, John wondered whether anyone would be surprised if the theatre were refurbished as a government building. Aside from removing the marquee, nothing would have to change to fit its new purpose.

With that cheering thought in mind, John caught the heavy oak door behind Sherlock and stepped over the threshold, and immediately felt himself transported a hundred years back. The fake marble pillars and the intricately patterned carpet clamped around him with regal gravity, as if he really were walking into a palace. Some relief came in the form of a desk outfitted with an anachronistic computer and a young woman in an usher's white-and-emerald green uniform. She had tied up her hair in a tangle of a bun, and a row of neon-blue hoop ears dangled from the rim of her right ear.

John's attention had initially been fixed on the golden plaster moulds that embellished the curved ceiling, but as soon as his gaze fell on the bird, all interest in architecture fled. Sherlock held an interest in the girl, too, but for a completely different reason.

"Morning," he greeted her pleasantly, approaching the desk with his hands clamped behind his back. "My friend and I are visiting from out of town. We understand there's a tour at the top of the hour. How much is admission?"

"That's ten quid each, sir," said the girl. While she looked at her computer screen to print out their tickets, John watched her tuck a loose piece of black hair behind her ear. He sighed a little, suddenly reminded of the times Sarah would tuck in her hair like that.

He blinked at his own thought process. It was a bit ridiculous, actually, to suddenly be reminded of Sarah. They'd broken up almost . . . God, a year ago! Had it really been that long? And he'd had a number of girlfriend in between. But he still saw her now and then at the surgery and, for all the very logical reasons they decided to end their relationship, John still credited her as the most abiding girlfriend he'd had since moving in with Sherlock. The break-up occurred not too long after the pool incident. No break-downs, no tears. Not a smidgen of bitterness. Just two mature adults coming to the inevitable conclusion that, at this time, it was better to not be involved. John couldn't commit himself in the way Sarah wanted him to. He'd seen it coming, which made it easier and harder. He saw a similar patter form with the following girlfriends, and Sarah really had done the best handling Sherlock's eccentric behaviour. She actually kind of liked him, she once told John, in her own way.

Was there really no way to have both a love life and a life of crime-solving with Sherlock? If only there were. John didn't want to be a bachelor _all_ his life.

He finally snapped out of his melancholy memories when Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder and presented him his ticket. They had to wait fifteen minutes for the tour to begin. The wait wouldn't have made much difference, since the two friends were the only ones present. They both took a seat in a pair of upholstered chairs. John, without meaning to, looked back over at the young woman behind the desk. She was resuming her place in a paperback novel. John couldn't read its title at that distance. She didn't look anything like Sarah, except maybe for her height. That realisation bothered him even more. Did this happen often? Had he been unconsciously comparing her to every woman he saw and had the slightest interest in?

Even though the girl never noticed his stares, John couldn't stand this unwarranted obsession and struggled to turn his mind somewhere else. The antiquated features of the theatre lost their wonder. Fewer minutes than he wished passed before John felt himself on the edge of self-restraint. This must have been how Sherlock felt whenever he became agitated from boredom.

Maybe he could chat up Sherlock as a distraction. The doctor coughed to get his companion's attention. "Why exactly are we here again?"

"A tour of the theatre should give us some insight into the kind of work Gary did," said Sherlock, "and what events unfolded during his employment here. I can already see that renovations were made in the last decade. From what little I know, this theatre is over a hundred years old."

"Sure looks like it," said John, eyeing a cubic pillar right next to him. "It doesn't quite fit with the choice of show."

Sherlock smirked a little. "Appearances can be deceiving."

John laughed a little. "True. We've already seen plenty examples of that."

Here again John evoked more unwanted memories. His thoughts went straight to the criminals they'd faced in past cases. The cabby, for example. Outwardly ordinary and non-threatening; underneath, a sadistic, egotistical murderer.

And there was Moriarty, of course. The most obvious example, and the one who sent the most violent shivers of hate and horror through John. To think they had been in the same room together, prior to the swimming pool; the madman had hovered and crooned around his friend like a watchful snake, pretending to be a harmless, beguiled admirer. Then, at the pool, he became a spider and ensnared them in his massive web, rendering them immobile. He had had them completely in his power. Well, almost.

"Remember to ask when Gary became the manager, and if anything memorable has happened during his time as such," Sherlock whispered. His eyes snapped toward a man-and-woman couple who just came in. John understood the sudden flash of apprehension in his friend's eyes, but it was unnecessary. The couple purchased two tickets for an upcoming performance. When ten o'clock came around, John and Sherlock were still the only ones present for the tour.

Along with the questions Sherlock voiced, John also kept in mind to ask about Gary's awards. There was no reason to suspect Gary of anything underhanded, but it was important to check. After all, _someone_ had a reason to kill him.

Their tour guide, a bearded, middle-aged black man named Marcus Gabriel, led them up a narrow but heavily gilded speckled-marble staircase. The black walnut walls flanking them had oval mirrors spaced about ten centimeters apart. At the right angle, John could gaze into infinity as opposing mirrors reflected one another with hundreds of faces and backs of heads occupying the space. The momentary distraction it caused was broken by Sherlock's prodding. They continued up the steps and through another set of double doors. They walked into a winding hallway supported by wide arches. Their guide rambled on a bit about the history of the place, starting back in the 1880s and gradually making his way to the present day. John missed a good chunk of the details, but he wasn't worried. Sherlock knew what information to pick out as important, and they were more concerned with the management's recent activities. As the tour continued, the charm of the period architecture returned to John. They passed through another door, unsuspectingly taking them into the auditorium – the very heart of the Palace Theatre.

John whistled. This place was enormous! The stalls alone held about 500 seats, and that number neglected those in the dress circle, the grand circle _and_ the balcony. In short, the seating plan accommodated about 1400 patrons. The scale was impressive for a single theatre. It possessed the classical feel of a Victorian theatre, too, with red velvet chairs, gold trimmings, a chandelier burning soft yellow light high above, and lavishly designed boxes around the sides of the stage.

Sherlock absorbed these details in one fell swoop, then asked their guide: "Is it true this theatre underwent renovations recently?"

"Oh, that was a while ago," Gabriel replied as they headed for the backstage area. "Back in '04, I believe. All interior work, except for the facade. Yeah, I remember it as one of the longest periods the theatre's ever been dark. From my own experience, of course. But our audiences have been quite pleased with the improvements. It's like the spirit of the theatre has been given new life. Out of darkness into light!" He gave a brassy chuckle.

His words made John recall a bizarre superstition from his secondary school days when he performed in the orchestra pit for musical productions. It always confused him even after a few of his fellow students tried to explain it to him. "Do you really have to keep at least one light on at all times in a theatre?"

"Of course!" The bright-eyed guide spoke amiably, but with an unshakeable conviction John didn't expect. "It's called the ghost light, and we place it on the stage whenever the theatre isn't holding a performance."

"Right. I can understand its practical purposes, but I never got why it's called a 'ghost light'. You don't really think there are ghosts in here, do you?"

Gabriel raised his large shoulders in a shrug. "Every old theatre has its ghost. Ghosts bring good luck when they're appeased. The light keeps them happy, and a happy ghost means good news for the rest of us." He gave the two men a smile with no hint of jest in it.

John couldn't imagine anyone in this day and age with an ounce of sense still bought into such superstition. "You _really_ think your theatre has a ghost?"

The guide's face became a touch more serious. "I don't think, mate. I _know_."

"How's that?"

"I've always been fascinated by the mechanisms of flies and trapdoors," Sherlock cut in, apparently oblivious to John and Gabriel's conversation. "May we have a glance at the devices below?"

"I'm afraid there's not much to see except the equipment and props we store down there," said Gabriel. "We don't use the trapdoors in our performances."

Sherlock regarded him with a puzzled squint. "Why not?"

"Management's decision. The machinery down there was old and didn't work like what I've seen in other theatres. I have no idea what genius designed it, but we could hardly make any logical sense of those switches and lifts. Most of it we removed. Anything too integral to the stage's structure was left in."

"Maybe someone should review the blueprints to understand how they work," John suggested.

"I doubt that would be a simple task," countered Gabriel. "The theatre has been reconstructed so many times I'm not sure if the understage area was designed by Richard D'Oyly Carte, Walter Emden or Emblin Walker. If the original prints still exist, I think they disappeared during the last renovation."

"Disappeared?" echoed Sherlock. The three men had emerged from one of the wings, a jungle of ropes and flies, and now beheld the entire auditorium from centre stage. Sherlock scanned every facet of the proscenium setup, causing him to turn in a circle like he did in Stacey Street. "How did they disappear?"

"I'm afraid I don't know much about that." Gabriel crossed the stage towards the other wing. He seemed anxious to continue onto other topics of interest and finish the tour. "If you would like to learn more, you could speak to the manager, Mr Gary."

John steeled himself against the irony in that suggestion. "Can you tell us when we may expect him?"

"He comes in when he pleases, but he normally arrives at his office after lunching down the street. If you wait a little while, you might be able to ask him about it. But he's a busy man and likes his privacy when working. I wouldn't press him too much if I were you."

"Your suggestions are greatly appreciated, Mr Gabriel," said Sherlock. While he spoke, he quickened his walk to overtake the guide while John kept at his own pace so he could think. Was the question of the blueprints really significant? It was interesting, but John couldn't see a connection between the missing designs for the trapdoors and Gary's murder.

Sherlock disregarded the topic for the moment. "Why does Gary come in so late, if I may ask?"

"He tends to work late into the night. The cleaners can rarely get into his office during the night shift, so they wait till early morning to do so."

"So they work around his schedule," Sherlock mused quietly, staring off as he stored this fact away.

"He has his odd habits, but Mr Gary is a very good manager," said Gabriel. "He's won plenty of awards for it."

"Then I gather he's been the manager for quite a while."

"About eight years now."

"What sort of personality does he have?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the subject of discussion inched closer to his real point of interest.

Gabriel knitted his heavy eyebrows, giving the question, and maybe it's purpose, consideration. "He's of the private sort, I suppose. Madly shy – doesn't like doing PR or any of that showmanship. Bit ironic, isn't it? But he has good taste. The higher ups wanted to put on more crowd-pleasing shows, but Gary wouldn't hear any of it. After _Woman in White_, he wrestled with the company to feature the revival of _Sunday in the Park with George_, and then to showcase that German musical. You know, the one they did in America that flopped so badly."

"_Tanz der Vampire_," said Sherlock without missing a beat. John snapped a glance in his direction, but kept silent.

"That's right! And he deserves commendation for it." Gabriel regained the lead ahead of Sherlock and turned toward the two men. Their questions must have touched a few nerves, going by his forced joviality. "Do you gentlemen have any further questions?"

"Yes, actually," said Sherlock. His slipped his hands into the pockets of his long coat, and for a moment John thought he was going to pull out another one of Lestrade's police badges. Instead he asked, "Where does Gary go to lunch? This very informative session has left me famished."

* * *

"You never eat while you're on a case," said John as they took their seats at the Café Boheme. The French bistro stood on Old Compton Street about a block away from the theatre.

"I know," said Sherlock in a low, dry tone, "so eat quickly. We need to discuss things."

John could tell from the nice furniture, the authentic-looking setup of the bar, and the displays of pastries and fruits that Gary must have been doing well to afford to eat at so posh a café every day for lunch. Their waitress brought each man a menu and gave John an open smile. He smiled back, trying not to sort out if her teeth were as white as Sarah's. When she departed, he buried his head in the menu. That didn't help.

"Bit pricey, isn't it?"

"It's the West End," Sherlock reminded him. "What did you expect?" His menu served as padding for his elbow. He leaned on it in thought.

Sherlock managed to wait till John placed his order before forcing open the discussion. His weaved his long fingers together and lightly pressed his lips against them. His gaze went past John out the wide window, into the busy street which thrummed from commercial activity and the rush of bodies hurrying for take-out before returning to work. Bevies of actors, musicians and other artists strolled by while chatting excitedly, maybe wrapped up in thoughts of exhausting rehearsals or in giddy anticipation of impending auditions or gigs.

John could only guess at their thoughts – they were a different species of human from him as far as he knew. Strangely enough, when he thought about it, he acknowledged that in another life Sherlock might have become one of those people. His artistic abilities were apparent even when he abused his violin or used his acting talents strictly for investigations. It was one of those curious contradictions in his friend's character – the cold, machine-like detective, devoted to logic and the thrill of solving puzzles, had aesthetic sensibilities. John still remembered the case with the bomber and the fake Vermeer, and that brief moment when Sherlock had gazed up at the stars and expressed his admiration for them. Or what about Irene Adler and the strange affect she'd had on him? Those incidents had shocked John in a way that even Sherlock's lightning-quick deductions couldn't. Was there another world – another _person_ – hidden inside that mechanical mind, which he let show only in certain circumstances?

"Any thoughts yet?" Sherlock disrupted the silence that had settled in the midst of their respective ponderings.

"Hmm? Oh, right." John sat up a little straighter and first searched for the waitress. He wanted an extra second to collect his thoughts. "Well, we've concluded that Gary's body was carried through the sewers from the place he was murdered."

"Obviously."

"But we don't know yet where he was murdered."

"Wherever it was," Sherlock said, "it had to be early in the morning. That eliminates several possibilities. We know now that Gary often stayed in his office well into the morning hours."

"Then he might have been killed near the theatre." John dropped his voice lower and barely finished the statement as the waitress returned with his soup.

She smiled at John again, then regarded Sherlock. "Are you sure you don't want anything, love?"

"Yes," Sherlock clipped. He didn't look at her.

The waitress' eyebrows jumped at the reply, but she nodded and looked at John. He felt obliged to give her an apologetic grin. "Thanks," he offered.

As much as John wanted to, there was no point lecturing Sherlock on tact right now. Even if he tried, Sherlock would parry with a quick, swift retort. Or just completely ignore him. He let it go, then, but he still simmered with irritation.

"Gary couldn't have made it outside before he was killed," Sherlock noted before John could continue. "This area is too busy for you to shoot someone outdoors and slip away with the body, even in the dead of night."

"Okay. But he could have been about to leave, which would explain why he was wearing the coat." John dipped his spoon and tested the soup's temperature. Scalding. He blew on it.

"Perhaps. And the theatre is big enough that someone could have shot him without anyone else hearing it. But where? Where would someone in the theatre have access to the sewers?" Sherlock paused. John took it as an opportunity to blow on his soup again and try another bite. Still burning, but tolerable if he sipped slowly. "There's something else bothering me, too."

"What?" John sipped his water to cool his tongue.

"The placement of the body." Suddenly, Sherlock flattened his hands against the table and leaned toward John. "Why did they put it in the alley? Wouldn't it have made more sense to dump it in the sewers and let the waste eat up the evidence? It would've been days, possibly _weeks_ before the body was found. Why take the risk?"

"Didn't you say once that genius seeks an audience?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This is different. The murderers _didn't_ want us to know where they killed Gary. If they were so worried, why not leave him in a environment that would cause his body and clothes to decay faster?"

John shrugged. "Maybe they're not that clever."

"No, no. Thinking to use the sewers, and making it look like a commonplace mugging? They're clever, all right. At least one of them is."

"Just one?" John continued eating his soup as he listened, mutely thankful that Sherlock was giving him time to satisfying his unruly stomach.

"Shooting a man at close range is a messy affair. If making a mess didn't matter to them, they'd have either left the body where it was or disposed it some place where it wouldn't be found right away. One person killed him, and the other person . . . tried to cover it up."

Sherlock slowed down on the last five words. He appeared to be on the verge of a breakthrough. Not knowing what else to do or say, John muttered, "Then it's an attempt at misdirection."

For a second, no response. Then, blinking, Sherlock looked at John. "What'd you say?"

"Misdirection. Maybe that's not the precise word, but it's the basic idea, right?"

The detective straightened like an alarmed giraffe. He pulled his hands back toward him. His eyes grew wide. "_Oh!_"

John straightened, too. His friend had hit on something. "What? What is it?"

Sherlock leapt out of his seat. "We have to go back right away!" He threw on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his long neck. "Before anyone touches anything!"

"Wait, Sherlock!" exclaimed John, trying to steady his bowl as Sherlock upset the table. "I haven't finished my soup!"

"There's no time for soup! A man's murderers are at large, we may be onto our first lead, and you're fussing about _soup_? Get your priorities sorted, doctor!"

John growled and stood up to put on his jacket. "I hate it when you do that."


	6. The Problem of the Chair

Wow, so many reviews (I mean for me, and considering it's my first Sherlock fic)! Thanks to everyone for your time and consideration. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. ^^

Revisions still underway. I'm hoping to get this finished by the end of this year . . . which is exactly what I said a year ago. But now that I'm at the halfway mark, it may actually happen this time. Whee!

Make sure to review, please!

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Chapter 5: The Problem of the Chair

Sherlock turned the sharp corner after the entrance's wide marble steps and approached the leaning girl behind the desk at power-walk speed. John jogged after him. "We need to see Mr Gary's office," Sherlock declared. He flashed an item he withdrew from an inside pocket of his coat. John assumed it was Lestrade's police badge.

The girl righted her posture at the abrupt request. Her dark eyes widened, but her responded with youthful scepticism. "Cops? What do you want here? There's been no trouble."

"I'm afraid you're very mistaken." Sherlock wielded his deadpan, don't-play-around-with-me voice with a white-metal glare to match. "Do you have the key? I need to get in there right away."

"It doesn't look good when cops sneak around here pretending to be tourists." The girl, probably around twenty-five, crossed her arms and returned the glare with admirable potency. John had no compunction against watching her now. He needed to see how this would end.

"I'll be sure to file your complaints in my report," Sherlock replied with cutting sarcasm. He leaned onto the desk. "But right now an investigation depends on me getting into that room. Now, will you please give us the key?"

"You can wait till Mr Gary comes in," said the girl coolly.

"Mr Gary won't be coming in."

John's gut tightened. Sherlock didn't need to go that route. He winced as the girl's expression shifted to confusion and she asked, "Why's that?" He stepped forward to get between them.

"Sherlock . . ."

"He's been murdered."

John shut his eyes. _For God's sake, Sherlock!_ Try as he might, he could never instil in his friend a better sense of tact. He opened his eyes and gauged the young woman.

Her resolute expression slowly dropped away. Shock, panic and grief crept into her face. While her eyes kept fixed on Sherlock, she unhooked her walkie-talkie from her belt and pressed the comm button. She brought it to her dry lips. "Mr Gabriel?"

A radio-static click followed. Then the round, warm voice of the tour guide came on. "Yes, Meg?"

"There's two policemen here to see you. It's urgent."

A hesitant pause. "I see. Did they say what they want?"

"They need to take a look at Mr Gary's office." Her voice stiffened. John swallowed as he guessed how hard she was working to keep it together.

"Oh. All right, I'll be right there."

Sherlock backed off and relaxed his stance. His face and eyes held no emotion, but they did soften. "Thank you."

Meg didn't answer. She had to take a seat, and as there was no chair behind the desk with her, she left her post and sat down on one of the chairs John and Sherlock had occupied about an hour earlier. John took the spot beside her. "Are you all right?" He was tempted to put a hand on her shoulder, but he held back. The last thing she needed was to think a cop was coming on to her at a moment of vulnerability, especially since he was many years older. "Do you need anything?" As if he could really do much. Idiotic as it was, John searched his pockets. His fingers felt a plastic box that rattled with dozens of small white tic tacs. Oh, right. It didn't often happen that John would get self-conscious, but from time to time he checked his breath and, if needed, freshened up. It was a stupid, insecure habit. He didn't use them that much, anyway.

With nothing else going for him, and without much to lose, John offered the girl a kind look and took out the box. "Tic tac?"

Meg's eyes had started to water, but now they looked at him, glittering with disbelief and, he hoped, amusement. Finally she gave a short laugh and sniffed. "Sure. Why not?"

John heard a quiet snort a few feet away from him above the clatter of minty pills pouring into her hand. He ignored it.

In a minute, the double doors at the other end of the room opened. Mr Gabriel eyed the group before settling his now perturbed gaze on Sherlock. "You?"

Sherlock held up the badge again. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Take us to Mr Gary's office, Mr Gabriel."

"What's happened?" Gabriel asked, registering Meg's still distressed attitude, despite the recent comfort supplied by the tic tacs and their dispenser.

"Mr Gary has been murdered," Sherlock explained in icy monotone.

Gabriel's face paled. His lips moved a little, trying to respond to the shattering news, but his voice had left him.

"Time is of the essence, Mr Gabriel," said Sherlock sternly. He stepped closer to the rattled staff director. "I'll need to ask you questions, but first we must see the office." He paused, and when Gabriel still didn't move, Sherlock sighed. "If you _please_."

Gary's office was situated in the southern corner of the theatre on the third storey. When Gabriel's shaky hands opened the door, the first item John noticed was the rectangular sash window that granted the room most of its light. The chamber had a hexagonal shape, like a nook in a medieval tower. Claustrophobia seized John for a few minutes. He entered the space with Sherlock and Gabriel. It wouldn't have seemed so small if not for the shelves of theatre history and styles books, a filing cabinet brimming with manila folders, and a large, ornately carved desk in the middle. The walls were crowded with photos of Mr Gary with various celebrities and award plaques resembling doctors' diplomas. A sharp scent of cleaning fluid and detergent lingered in the air; it gave John another reason to leave sooner rather than later.

"At least he got plenty of recognition," John muttered, mostly to himself.

Gabriel's voice finally returned. He took a step toward the 'policemen'. "Why didn't you say anything before? During the tour . . . how could you keep that news from us?"

When Sherlock, whose eyes meticulously examined the room, didn't answer, John turned to Gabriel. "The truth is, we're trying to keep this investigation quiet for as long as possible. Someone tried to make Gary's death look like a mugging."

"A mugging?" Gabriel repeated in disbelief.

"I'm afraid so. We've determined that we're dealing with some dangerous characters. Isn't that right, _detective inspector_?" John sent Sherlock a pointed look. Sarcasm aside, he also wanted to make sure he was keeping the facts straight.

Sherlock didn't turn around. "Where's the chair?"

John and Gabriel both started. "The chair?" asked the latter.

"Yes." Sherlock turned and bore down on the already shaken staff director with a fierce gaze. "Why is the chair for the desk gone?"

Gabriel shivered and stepped past the detective for a look. So did John. There was, indeed, no chair present for the desk.

"I-I don't know!" Gabriel scratched his closely shaven head. "I can't imagine why anyone would've taken it, unless it broke recently."

"Who would know about that?" asked Sherlock.

"The cleaners. Or the carpenters in the prop shop. Sometimes when things break in the offices, we commission them to fix them or—"

Gabriel stopped short when Sherlock threw himself on the floor. The director regarded John. "Is he all right?"

"He'll tell us in a minute," John answered.

The two men watched Sherlock take out his magnifier and crawl along the crimson carpet. "Do the cleaners usually lock the door after they clean in here?" he asked as he examined the floor behind the desk.

"I don't remember. Nadir is the one on shift for it today. I don't think he's left yet."

"Please go get him."

As quickly as his heavy form would let him, Gabriel slipped out of the office and hustled down the hall.

"I don't understand," John finally blurted out. "Why's a missing chair so important? And the locked door?"

Sherlock was completely hidden behind the desk now. His proximity to thee floor partially muffled his voice. "Don't you smell it, John? This place reeks of cleaning products."

How could he not? The alcohol fumes singed the inside of his nose. "Yeah. So?"

"Why would anyone use so much detergent and ammonia for an office that's cleaned every day and probably doesn't face anything more damaging than a muddy footprint? Gary hardly seemed like the sort of man to let himself track filth into his sanctum. Remember his fingernails?"

John's eyebrows arched. "No."

Sherlock popped up behind the desk like a muskrat. "Well-trimmed and polished. Regularly cleaned. A man who gets monthly manicures wouldn't sully his office with muddy shoes. Also . . ." He groaned as he assumed a crouching position, and then hopped up to his feet. He brushed off the front of his coat, though John couldn't see any fuzz or residue. "The indents on the carpet from the chair are recent. The chair was taken out of here no more than ten hours ago."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't broken."

"It's still suspicious."

John raised an eyebrow. "How is a broken chair suspicious?"

Sherlock took a breath to give his explanation, but a knock diverted his attention. He lifted his eyes to look over John's head to the open door.

"Mr Nadir, I presume?"

John turned around. Gabriel, now red in the face from running, stood in the doorway beside a tall Persian man in his late thirties or early forties. The stranger's dark green eyes complimented his light olive complexion with striking effect. The black, closely-cut beard placed his appearance on the older end of the early-middle-age spectrum, but he was still good-looking in a steady, square-jaw sort of way. He looked like a man who demanded to be taken seriously regardless of his station.

The doctor's eyes darted to the name tag sewn onto the man's grey uniform. He squared his shoulder to play a more convincing policeman. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr Khan. We just need to ask you a few questions."

"Policemen?" Mr Khan asked. His eyes had a startling penetrability to them.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock stepped up next to John. He slipped the magnifier back into his pocket. "You were the cleaner assigned to tend to Mr Gary's office this morning, yes?"

"I was going to," Nadir answered in a controlled voice, "but when I came in, I saw the room had already been cleaned. I assumed Mr Gary left early last night and that one of the night cleaners took care of it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a millimeter. "So you _didn't_ clean the office."

"That is correct." The cleaner's forehead crinkled a little. "Is it true that Mr Gary has been killed, inspector?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "but I would appreciate it if you kept this news close to the chest until the police issue a formal report. We're dealing with some very dangerous felons."

"I see. And how is the state of his office relevant to the investigation?"

John might have thought the janitor's question insolent had his attitude not been so grave and measured. The faintest smile flickered across Sherlock's mouth. It disappeared in an instant. "We have reason to suspect that while Gary's body was discovered a few blocks from here, the actual murder took place in this theatre. Perhaps in this very office."

John nearly gawked at Sherlock. In the office? He tried to stay composed, but he couldn't stop from taking another look at the room. How was it possible? It seemed too confined and cluttered for there to be no evidence, except possibly the missing chair. He saw no sign of a struggle, no disturbed items or anything.

"That's impossible!" interrupted Gabriel. "How could such a thing happen right under our noses?"

"Didn't you tell me that Gary often stayed late?" Sherlock remarked. "Well after everyone, even the cleaners_,_ went home?"

"But who would come in at that late hour to attack Mr Gary?" Gabriel's brow moistened with his increasing anxiety.

"That's what we're here to find out." Sherlock's eyes moved back and forth between the director and the stoic cleaner. "First things first: Call in all the cleaners who were working last night. I want to speak with every single one of them about that chair."

"The chair?" asked Nadir.

"That's right. Didn't you notice, Mr Khan, that the desk chair was missing from this room?"

The first sign of worry crossed the cleaner's face. "I didn't think anything of it."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course you didn't." He addressed Gabriel again. "Start making those calls. We'll send over the rest of our unit shortly to survey the rest of the theatre for clues. In the meantime, we must make another quick visit in the area."

"We do?" questioned John.

"That's right. We need to attend to the unfortunate widow. Do you gentlemen, by any chance, know Mrs Gary?"

"I've only met her once," offered Gabriel. His voice was much quieter than earlier. "She doesn't seem to take much interest in her husband's work."

Nadir simply shook his head. His gaze betrayed nothing.

"Excellent." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, giving John a triumphant look. "Shall we go, Sgt Donovan?"


	7. Walking On Piano Keys

I'm sorry I made this so MASSIVELY long. Also, sorry this took a while to update - meant to do it several days ago, but FF was being mentally challenged on my laptop. Yay.

* * *

Chapter 6: Walking on Piano Keys

"Excellent? What do you mean 'excellent'?" John tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, even though it wasn't cold, though far from Mediterranean. "How does Gabriel and Nadir barely knowing Mrs Gary help us?"

"It confirms what I've started to suspect about their marriage." Sherlock talked as he typed a text on his phone for Lestrade. When he finished, he leaned against the outer wall of the Palace Theatre. The near-black navy blue in his coat looked even darker against the russet bricks. They gave his otherwise fair skin a richer hue. "Now we'll talk to her ourselves to corroborate my impressions."

The question of what exactly Sherlock had sorted out intrigued John, since he hadn't a clue. But John's mind still lingered on everything that just happened inside the theatre. The matter of Mrs Gary would be addressed soon enough.

"Why do you think the murder happened in the office?" he asked at last. "And the business with the chair – why is that significant?" His friend never did give his explanation.

Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. A pensive but relaxed expression settled on his face. "Cleaning fluid, John."

"Huh?"

"Remember when you examined the bullet hole in Gary's chest? You must have taken note of the angle."

John had to close his eyes again to summon up the bleak image of Gary's bloodied, lifeless body in the street. Even the scent of the still-soggy shirt and gaping chest wound returned, making John just slightly ill. He remembered trying to determine Gary's position and the position of the shooter when the gun was fired. The bullet had entered and exited the body at an odd angle, as though one person had been higher up than the other.

"You're right, I did. The shot must have been taken at close range with either Gary sitting or kneeling on the ground and the shooter standing in front of him, or Gary standing and the shooter on the ground behind him."

"The second scenario doesn't seem as likely, unless there had been a struggle." Sherlock's eyes opened and roved. He was still waiting for the detective inspector's reply. John would have been extraordinarily dense to assume Sherlock's focus was wavering as he waited. He could imagine his friend building a mental map of Cambridge Circus, registering every building, stop sign and manhole so he could later determine how the murderers got in and out without being noticed. And all while carrying on a conversation with his companion. It was impressive, actually.

"I suppose not." John winced as a cab zipped by a hit him with a blast of cool air. "Is that a safe assumption, though?"

"Sometimes we have to take a leap. Let's assume for now that the shooter stood in front of Gary. You said Gary would have been on the ground, yes?"

"Or just lower than the gunman," John modified.

"And how might the killers have achieved that in his office?"

John answered with a stumped look as he tried to make sense of the question. His eyes rounded. Another one of those realisations that John thought should have come sooner from being so obvious.

"He was sitting in the chair! Of course! And the bullet must have . . . geez. But I didn't see a bullet hole in the floor. Did you? Or could a chair really stop a bullet?"

"I didn't, and it depends on the material," remarked Sherlock. "But you see it now, don't you? The cleaning products, the missing chair . . . the murder happened _there_, and someone tried to cover it up before we arrived. If we find the chair in time, we'll be that much closer to ID-ing our prey."

John gave a surprised chuckle. "You really like comparing this to a hunt, don't you?"

Sherlock gave a teasing smile. "What else would you call it? Dr Watson, Man of Action?"

The doctor broke into a smile and shook his head. "You're mental." They shouldn't have been chuckling and smiling while inside people were grieving over the death of their employer. That reminder helped sober John a bit. "Do you think maybe one of the staff is involved?"

"That is what Lestrade will look into." The detective checked his phone. Still no response, John assumed.

"Are you sure that's wise? When he shows up, they'll realise you were lying. Won't that put some people off on both sides of the investigation?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hardly. This isn't the first time I've passed myself off as Lestrade. He should be flattered. If not, he'll get over it. And so will they."

John wouldn't wonder if Sherlock's popularity dropped even further by the end of today.

Two beeps went off in Sherlock's pocket. He pulled out the phone and ran his eyes over the screen. The corner of his mouth turned up. "Looks like Lestrade is all set with Mrs Gary. She's at St Martin-in-the-Fields right now. Shall we? It's not a far walk."

The doctor had no objection to walking, but they seemed to be doing a lot of it today. He shouldn't have been complaining; better to wear oneself out from wholesome exercise than wear out one's bank account with cab fares. They made the somewhat treacherous crossing from the theatre building to the opposite side of Shaftesbury Avenue, and then again to the opposite side of Charing Cross Road. The traffic was still a mad frenzy of cars, cabs and buses trying to squeeze through the streets and bend around the curve of Cambridge Circus. It really _was_ a circus. The sidewalks were equally flooded with people, townies and tourists alike surveying the goods and entertainment venues of the West End.

Sherlock was right; John couldn't imagine any intelligent person trying to pull off a murder in the area unless they were inside the theatre. No wonder the bastards used the sewers. But John stopped himself on this thought. Just how did one get into the sewers from inside a building? There might be entryways in the lower levels for construction workers, but John had no idea how likely it was that a theatre would have an access point to let two people carry a six-foot-three dead man into the sewage system. If that kind of entrance didn't exist inside, how could they get _outside_ to use the sewers without being noticed? Maybe the theatre had a back entrance screened from the immediate attention of passers-by. That was the closest John could arrive at a conceivable solution.

It was time to switch gears and ask simpler questions. Just before he tossed one to Sherlock, he caught sight of the National Gallery and the fountain bubbling in the heart of Trafalgar Square. He could see it some fifty metres ahead even through the streaming crowds. A familiar sight, and a memorandum to several past cases. Didn't that cipher case from way back take them here, and to the West End's Chinatown? God, talk about déjà vu.

After a minute of reminiscing, John returned his focus to the present. "Does his wife work at the church?"

"She's the verger – one of the lay people who take part in the procession during a service." Sherlock dodged a few steps to the left as a mad cyclist in a butterfly-patterned helmet and blue and yellow spandex shot up the sidewalk. A similar break continued behind them with the rest of the pedestrians. The crowd came apart like an old seam as the cyclist scissored his way through. A cross scowl shadowed Sherlock's forehead for a second, but he dismissed the incident without another word. "She sounds like she might offer some resistance."

"Why do you say that?"

To answer, Sherlock handed John the mobile as they strolled. The text from Lestrade was still on there.

_Fine. Mrs Lyla Gary. The verger at St Martin. Good luck._

John couldn't see anything in the message to indicate to him what Sherlock inferred. "So?"

"Lestrade enjoys the little trifles that he thinks will be an annoyance or obstacle to me. 'Good luck'. He wouldn't wish me luck unless he thought I was meeting trouble. It may be Mrs Gary isn't fond of talking to the police."

"Good thing we're _not_ the police," John said archly. Sherlock saw his ironic look and chuckled.

The crowds didn't dwindle much as they passed by the Nelson statue up on its high perch, so it became something of a challenge to find anyone who could accurately direct them to the church offices. Sherlock finally spotted a reverend still wearing his collar and approached him for guidance. The minister looked around Gary's age, or a touch older, with some of the still-blond hair encircling the back of his head like a monk's. His pine-green eyes gave them a pleasant greeting. When Sherlock explained that they needed Mrs Gary's office, though, the minister's wrinkled face grew sombre.

"Ah. Is this another police inquiry?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "An inquiry of sorts, yes. And to give my condolences."

"Please show her kindness, sir," the minister gently urged. "We are all subjected to suffering, but Mrs Gary has sacrificed a great deal for this church. Her grief is ours, and none of us wish to cause her any further pain. You understand, I hope."

"Of course," Sherlock reassured him with a nod. "But we are also interested in justice. I'm sure you understand _that_."

"Certainly, and I pray you will be successful in bringing the culprit to justice. Just be wary of the measures you take to reach your objective."

John cleared his throat. "We will, reverend. Thank you."

The minister pointed to a plain, eggshell-white shingled building about ten meters away from the church. Both detective and doctor watched the soft-spoken minister walk away before continuing on. It was a cool splash of water that was both refreshing and unsettling for John. He was pretty certain his parents were registered as members of the Church of England, but his own feelings about religion or God remained ambivalent. There were moments of impenetrable scepticism and doubt, but there were also glimpses where he wished he could believe in them with his heart. Most of the time, he just avoided turning his mind to it.

Regardless of John's ideological leanings, the minister had a fair point. They needed information, but it might have been too soon to pry. What state was Mrs Gary in, having just endured an interview with Lestrade over her husband's death? And not just death, but _murder_. And, above all, would Sherlock have enough sense to back off when necessary? Today's most recent example didn't offer much promise, so John stayed on his toes.

Once inside the foyer of the building, the pair noted the plaque beside the main, albeit narrow, carpeted staircase listing the different floors and offices. The verger's office was on the fourth floor, and the building had no lift.

Oh, great, John grumbled to himself, just what he needed – more walking. Upstairs. But he was prepared to take it like a soldier and silently acknowledge the creaks in his knees and hips without complaint. His mental preparation, however, was unnecessary. Before they made it up the first flight of stairs, a woman with silver-blonde hair intercepted them. Hers was more blended in tone than the minister's, and was cropped close to the nape of her neck. Sherlock must have spotted her name on an ID tag or on one of the folders she carried, even though John couldn't see either from behind his friend.

"Mrs Lyla Gary, I presume?" Sherlock addressed the woman before she could slip by.

She stopped dead, looking up with copper-brown eyes and a rigid jaw line. Her skin still looked soft – daily cream applications. A fifty-something-year-old woman trying to make herself look thirty. Insecure about aging? Symptom of a troubled marriage?

John told his brain to stop with the flurry of preposterous inferences. Or maybe Sherlock was somehow directly transmitting his thoughts to John. Whoever was responsible, he wanted them to shut up.

Mrs Gary, as Sherlock correctly guessed, took a breath before answering. "If you are the police, I'm not obliged to answer any more questions." Her tone kept an even keel, and though the faint lines around her mouth and forehead betrayed the stress she recently endured, everything in her attitude suggested a determination to 'keep calm and carry on'. John didn't know whether to praise her sangfroid or be suspicious of it.

Sherlock stepped into her path as she tried to push pass them with whatever civility she could manage at this time. His beanstalk physique still posed as a stone wall to her exit, and he met her at eye level despite being a step below her. Yet he spoke in a gentler tone this time. John nearly lost his grip on the railing from this new tack. It didn't sound at all forced.

"I assure you, ma'am, that we are not the police. And while we would like to ask one or two more questions about your husband, we don't want to cause you any more distress."

"Even if that's the case," Mrs Gary replied, the hint of a winter wind in her voice, "this is a very inopportune time. Could this be postponed to a later date?"

"Time is short in that department," Sherlock explained, never losing his calm. "We already know the general details of your husband's occupation, but we require some more personal knowledge of your relationship with him, and specifics about his habits. Five minutes is all I ask, Mrs Gary."

"I don't really see what the fuss is all about," she quipped, once again trying to slide past Sherlock. This time he let her go, which made John to do a double-take. But Mrs Gary kept talking as she went down. The two men took that as permission to follow her. They carried their conversation out of the building. A flock of pigeons fluttered and flew away from them as they cut across the slated square toward the church. "I was told," she continued, clutching several manila folders to her chest, "that he was mugged in an alley. If his murder was the result of petty theft, why all the hullabaloo about his habits and our marriage?"

As they drew closer to the church, John caught a glimpse of a small domed structure squatting between the church and another office building. Its glass walls fiercely reflected the sunlight. He would never have guessed its purpose if not for a sign next to the church's main entrance. Large letters read CAFE IN THE CRYPT and were underscored by a giant red arrow pointing toward the smaller structure. John paused as he pondered the sign's meaning. A subterranean cafe? In a _crypt_? As in where they buried people? That seemed a bid morbid, not to mention unappetising. His unsettled stomach nearly made John fall behind and miss the rest of the conversation. He gave himself another mental slap and jogged to catch up.

"The police are keeping the circumstances of your husband's death vague," Sherlock explained as they neared the church's doors, "to prevent major press coverage. The truth is that someone tried to make your husband's murder _look_ like a mugging. The person responsible was clearly after more than his wallet. It's my job to find out who that person is, what they _did_ want and how we can catch them."

Mrs Gary's paced slowed as Sherlock spoke. By the time the detective was finished, she stopped altogether. She kept her back to him and John while trying to digest all the facts. When she finally turned around and faced them, her eyes narrowed on Sherlock. They were needle-sharp.

"Who _are_ you, exactly? If you're not the police . . ."

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He gestured back with his head. "This is my colleague, Dr Watson."

Mrs Gary moistened her lips. The stress lines in her face deepened a little. "The truth is, Mr Holmes, I barely knew anything about my husband beyond our home life. Our twelfth anniversary is in two weeks, and still, even after all this time, he seemed like a stranger sometimes." She stopped and looked around. Although no one was lingering close by to eavesdrop, the area swarmed with people darting here and there or conversing in small groups around the church entrance, or on the corner of Duncannon Street. John could read the subtle look of anxiety on her face. She still tried to appear collected. "I'd prefer to continue this conversation indoors."

"Of course," said Sherlock.

They followed Mrs Gary into the church and through the foyer leading into the nave. The natural light pouring through the Romanesque windows, which ran ornamented the sides and the back of the church, complemented the softly glowing bulbs from the sconces and chandeliers. Their radiance mimicked candlelight. The walls and high arching ceiling weren't as heavily gilded with gold like the Palace Theatre, but they featured large floral engravings that also reminded John of the previous building. He felt another, milder attack of déjà vu coming on, but St Martin had a key difference to offset the effect. Along with the wide windows that let in the afternoon sun, another major contrast was the colour scheme. The pews appeared to be built of ebony or some type of wood painted and polished to a shiny black finish. The church's interior, on the other hand, was covered in an ivory shade of plaster. Except for the gold trimming and the pink bouquets situated in the sanctuary, John felt like he was walking on top of a piano keyboard.

To complete this odd but enchanting picture, someone quietly played a toccata on a hidden organ above and behind their heads. It must have been the organist practicing for next Sunday's service. John and Sherlock each gave a quick head-twist towards the music, but neither could see the performer and gave up trying to. Mrs Gary did not pause in her march. She kept a determined pace as she headed for one of the rooms that flanked the sanctuary, extracting a key ring from her pocket as she did. John took note of the artefact. A ring of keys, just like her husband the theatre manager.

All three of them entered the tiny chamber. It held one glass-door cabinet filled with items used in the service: two chalices, one covered by a white cloth and one uncovered; a round, silver, lidded box with a cross as the knob; four large bowls for collection; three or four white table cloths for the altar; and a bundle of unsullied snow-white napkins. There was another cabinet, too. Mrs Gary opened its top drawer. Instead of silverware or cloth, there were folders of papers that the verger began to sort through without regarding either of her visitors with an explanation. After a minute of patience, Sherlock interrupted the silence with a question that really wasn't one.

"Your husband was a stranger to you?"

"Yes," Mrs Gary said shortly, still not turning around or ceasing her paper sorting. "He had secrets, as I suppose everybody does. But the worst of it was that he knew _I_ knew he had secrets. And _still_ he wouldn't confide in me. So I really can't help you."

"Why do you think he felt he couldn't tell you?" asked Sherlock. "What do you think he was hiding about himself?"

"I really don't know." Her voice faintly cracked.

"_Mrs Gary._"

She stopped what she was doing. The pressing tone in Sherlock's voice wasn't as reprimanding as it was urgent and concerned. Mrs Gary must have heard it, too. She sighed and slowly turned around. Her eyes shined, and John wondered if she would finally have a breakdown. She shut them, though, and inhaled slowly. Her polished nails gripped the edge of the cabinet. John could hear the wood creak.

"I think you _do_ know," Sherlock said quietly, taking a step toward her. "You at least have some _idea_ of what he had done. Or what he was doing."

Mrs Gary breathed deeply again and swallowed. Then she opened her eyes. They looked heavy with grief. "He said a few weeks ago that he would tell me everything on our anniversary. I don't know why, but he promised he would explain everything about himself."

"How did you first meet him?"

Mrs Gary smiled wryly. "At this very church. He and I came here about the same time – I as an applicant for the verger's position, he as a lost soul. When we first knew each other, he explained that he'd been through a prolonged bout of spiritual uncertainty and neglect. St Martin was the first church he'd been to in years." She loosened her hold on the cabinet as she talked. When she paused, she rolled her bony shoulders. "That might be why I was drawn to him at the start. I wanted to help him. _Save_ him. And he seemed like a good if just a very shy man. I assumed we would eventually overcome those personal barriers that stopped him from trusting people."

Sherlock's face remained blank but for the slightly drawn eyebrows. "But you found yourself mistaken. Even after you married him."

She nodded. Her gaze dropped to the floor. "We probably shouldn't have, but we were both lonely. Both of us had married previously. I divorced. He never told me what happened with his first wife."

"Why did you decide," John broke in, "to marry a man who would tell you next to nothing about his past?"

Mrs Gary looked up and wrapped her arms around herself. Even her woolly jumper didn't shield her from the unpleasant chill in the conversation. "When we first started dating, he told me right off that he had an unhappy past. He didn't want to live in it, and he felt it would be wrong to make me share in it. I tried to convince him otherwise, but I think . . . I think he was afraid I would abandon him if he told me the truth.

"For the rest of the time, when we focused on the present, he seemed quite happy. As long as we never tried to bring up his past, he acted like a happy, normal human being. I even believed it was enough to justify spending the rest of my life with him, without knowing what it was he'd left behind."

She paused again. Her eyes were moist. She struggled to hold up the floodgates. John folded his arms, growing anxious for her sake. He couldn't imagine himself getting into a relationship with that level of commitment without knowing anything about a person's history, especially if they showed so much reluctance about discussing it.

_You dunce_, said a snickering voice in his head, _look to the guy on your left and tell me how much you know about_ his_ past._

Sherlock was different. He had good reasons for keeping things close to the chest. At least John trusted he did. Most of the time. And they'd known each other for only a year. _Completely_ different situation.

He checked Sherlock's face to see if he could gauge his reaction. Not much to go on, although the detective didn't seem to be itching for more details. Maybe John had worried too much. However brusque and rude Sherlock could be, he demonstrated a remarkable amount of forbearance sometimes, especially with women. Inside he might have been snapping at her to get on to the facts, but outwardly there was no sign of push. Sherlock remained marble-like in his passive listening.

No, that was wrong. Sherlock was always an active listener. His stillness was a sign of alertness. John mentally laughed at himself. He kept confusing the two.

"You said he was also secretive about things even after you were married," said Sherlock after a few moments' pause.

"That's right." Mrs Gary took a second to rub her eyes. "That's when things became problematic. He first worked as a clerk for a construction company, I believe. Ordinary job, just filing paperwork and sending out memos, from what he told me. Maybe there was more going on, but I don't know anything beyond that. And then, out of nowhere, he tells me he's been offered a job at a theatre. As its new manager. He'd made contacts with people during its interior renovation, and all at once he had a new job with entirely different skill-sets and sensibilities. I thought maybe he was having some sort of midlife crisis."

"That was eight years ago, yes?"

"Yes. And it turned out all right, to my disbelief. He received awards. He was highly respected. I didn't understand it, but I reasoned that he must have acquired certain skills for that kind of job in his past. So I left it at that." Suddenly, she gave a short, razor-edged laugh. "It wasn't as if I could have pried much out of him. If there was anything else he was as un-chatty about as his past, it was his job. He'd tell me some general news, now and then, that you could read in the papers. That I found out pretty quickly when I verified the things he told me. If he said a show was going well, that's exactly what the papers said. He never lied. He just refused to tell me anything but the most basic, banal facts about his work. It didn't help that he started coming home at all hours of the night or morning. After a few years there, he started coming back about three or four in the morning and sleeping in until eleven. Sometimes later. And then . . ."

Mrs Gary half-sighed, half-moaned. She leaned against the cabinet again, bracing herself against the pain of her next admission.

"And then, one night, he comes back strangely early to have dinner with me. It was the first night we spent together in months. Things seem so pleasant, so _normal_. Then, after dessert, he makes his announcement. He's renting his own place in Central London, closer to work, so that he won't bother me when he gets home late. The paperwork has been piling up, and he wants a separate office to take care of the extra load so I won't be troubled by it. I was so shocked, so appalled that he actually held off setting up his second flat for about a month. I hardly spoke to him during and after that incident."

Sherlock's body twitched back to life, although John knew he hadn't been off to begin with. "Do you know the address of this other residence?"

"No. Even that stayed a secret. I wasn't allowed to surprise him there. As if I had my own time to do that. I had plenty of work here, too. Thank the Lord for that. I might have gone insane otherwise."

"And that was the state of things," Sherlock concluded, "on the day he was murdered. You didn't inquire when he didn't come home because you assumed he was at work or his other place, and you had to prepare for today's services."

"That's exactly how things were, Mr Holmes." Mrs Gary's voice went chilly again. Any sign of yielding to the floodwaters was gone. "I hope that's enough for you to go on in your investigation. I really don't have anything more to tell, and I don't have any more time, either. I'm very busy."

She stalked past Sherlock and John, pushing open the door with a sharpness that made John cringe for fear of it hitting the wall. She marched down the main aisle of the nave back to the entrance. Never minding the door or John, Sherlock sprinted and caught up to her in a few strides. "There are two more things I would like to ask."

Mrs Gary turned smartly around. The music from the organ had grown louder since they came in, and although the melody wove around them like silk and satin to the ears, John had a harder time hearing the detective and the verger.

"Well?" asked Mrs Gary, raising her voice above the music.

"One: what is your explanation about your husband's behaviour? The reason you won't confess to anyone else."

"What makes you think I have one?"

"You were married to him for twelve years, as of the end of this month. You had some inkling, some theories you formed. You can't expect me to believe an intelligent person like you wouldn't have at least _considered _the possibilities."

Now the edge came into Sherlock's voice. John didn't think his friend doubted Mrs Gary's intelligence, although maybe he thought her judgment of character flawed. Yet he was aware she had some advantage being Gary's wife. She was the best resource on hand to gain personal information, like precious jewels in a rock cliff.

Mrs Gary clenched her hands. She looked at the floor before looking up again into Sherlock's face. "I think maybe, at some point, he was involved in something deviant. It could have been illegal, or just morally questionable. I don't know."

"And after that? During your marriage?"

"I think . . ." Mrs Gary shut her eyes. "What is the second question?"

Sherlock leaned toward her. John barely heard his question. "Did you give him the cufflinks with the masks?"

Mrs Gary snapped her eyes open. Her silvery eyebrows nosedived. "_No_." She knew what he was talking about.

"Do you think there's a connection?" he asked candidly.

Mrs Gary sighed and, again, squeezed her eyes shut. The music quickened in tempo and filled their ears like honey. Even Sherlock was becoming distracted. He flicked his eyes up again towards the second storey where the organ resided. The railing still blocked their view of the organist. The music was somehow seeping into John's insides. There were lighter, vibrant notes floating over a heavy undertone of pensiveness and pain. It sounded like the mournful prayer and fervent pleading of an enormous crowd.

"_Malaika!_" Mrs Gary suddenly screamed. "That's enough! Stop playing and come down here, please!"

The music came to a devastating halt.

"Ask her," muttered Mrs Gary, folding her arms. "She'll be able to tell you more."

"How is that?" Sherlock asked with a look of genuine surprise.

Mrs Gary didn't reply in words. She first threw a sharp glare at him, then aimed it at a staircase to their right. The steps creaked quietly under the feet of the organist. A long, unidentifiable shadow cut through the sunlight reflecting off the black wood.

A pair of flat black shoes and a floor-length black skirt followed the shadow. The skirt continued upward and sprouted a pair of wide sleeves. It kept going up until it rounded into what John presumed was a head. His only certainty about it being a head wasn't really from the shape. It was the eyes peeking through a narrow gap in the seemingly endless piece of cloth.

The woman, or the person he presumed to be a woman, took each step with care while holding the skirt of her robes a few inches above the ground. It looked like a hassle having to watch her feet so closely. When she did look up, her eyes surveyed the group with a non-specific gaze. She seemed to be trying to make sense of the situation without rudely staring. John wished he could exercise such restraint, but he was too baffled to make the effort. He felt quite sure he was looking at a woman in a burqa and other garments typically worn by Muslim women. She was also tall – and by tall, he meant Sherlock territory – which gradually became more obvious to him as she came down and walked toward them. That was all he could assess about her figure. The robe or dress obscured her shape to the point of bodilessness. But that wasn't the most surprising thing about this picture.

John and Sherlock instantly exchanged glances. They shared the same look of disbelief.

"Malaika Qadir," Mrs Gary declared flatly, "these gentlemen would like to ask you some questions about Mr Gary."

The veiled woman's dark eyes flitted from Mrs Gary to the men with expected unease. She didn't venture to speak first, so Sherlock stepped forward and extended a hand. His surprised expression was replaced with one of formal but encouraging cordiality.

"Sherlock Holmes, Miss Qadir. The other man is Dr Watson. Anything you say to me you can say in front of him."

Malaika glimpsed at Sherlock's proffered hand before looking at the floor. Her hands disappeared into the deep sleeves, and she bent her head and shoulders forward in a simple bow. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said at last in a light, almost whispering voice. "Please forgive my rudeness a moment ago. I did not realise Mrs Gary had visitors."

She spoke English well, but there was a slight, familiar accent that made John prick up his ears. Was he imagining things, or was Pashto her native tongue?

"Not at all," Sherlock dismissed with a grin. "JS Bach, yes?"

"His fugue in F major." When Malaika finally looked up, her eyes were alight from Sherlock's response. "You are musical, Mr Holmes?"

"In my own way. You played it very well." There was a warm resonance in Sherlock's voice which caught the attention of John's ears. His friend seemed to be addressing another human being in a rare mood of earnest admiration.

Malaika nodded humbly, but John could see the shy smile in her eyes. "Thank you, sir."

"If I may ask," Sherlock continued, shifting his weight to one foot, "where did you study?"

This conversation was heading in a direction John hadn't expected, and certainly one Mrs Gary didn't expect or especially like. Her brows knitted together as she checked in with the doctor, questioning without words whether this was a typical tactic of interrogation. John could only shrug. Sherlock tried all kinds of methods to get information – smiles, tears, bets. And, of course, the handy glares. He used collusion now and then, but Sherlock didn't often find himself in situations where he felt compelled to thoroughly ingratiate himself with people. He preferred to stay on the outside of interpersonal conflicts. It didn't help to take sides unless someone's life or well-being were seriously at stake.

"I started proper musical study after I came to England. Before that I had to teach myself. I come from a traditional family, so it was difficult to find opportunities. But Mr Gary was kind enough to help me become a student at the Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields. He also recommended me as the church organist."

Sherlock tilted his head and squinted. "I see. How did you two meet? Through the theatre?"

Malaika nodded. "I auditioned for the orchestra as a pianist. He chose another musician with more . . . _professional_ experience, but he contacted me afterwards to tell me how impressed he was with my performance." Her voice was so soft, but the slight tremor told a lot about her regard for her now deceased benefactor. "We met for a meal, I told him my history, and he decided to help me."

"How long ago was that?"

"A few months after I came to England."

"And what were you doing before then?"

Her eyes blinked a few times, and even though John couldn't really see them even after he casually drew closer, he was pretty sure her brow furrowed a touch at the question. Still, she replied with unfaltering politeness. Her voice, as delicate as a butterfly's wing, sounded like it might flutter off altogether. It didn't match her towering form, but maybe living her life behind a veil had something to do with it.

"I had no other employment position before this. I was unemployed for about six months after I arrived to England."

Sherlock lifted his head a bit, a quiet twinkle appearing in his eye. "And where did you emigrate from?"

Malaika blinked again, but not as rapidly. Her tone gently questioned him. "Russia. I lived there about four years. But I was born in Kabul, Afghanistan."

John, not considering how loud it would sound, sucked in a quick breath. He'd been right about her accent. She must have been a Pashtu. A flicker of memory as transient as lightning, and just as powerful, danced across John's eyes. The heat. The rapport of gunfire. The smell of dry earth and musky grass. The glimpses of faceless, dun-coloured shapes in the distance, and the ground and walls around them getting blown to pieces. It all came back and lasted for no more than a second, but it was enough to make John draw the smallest gasp. And it got attention. Malaika glanced at him, though whatever her emotional reaction, it didn't show. Sherlock also looked back, but his gaze didn't linger. It returned to Malaika after a second's worth of examination. He didn't seem perturbed by John's response.

Sherlock devoted his undivided attention to Malaika again. His voice dropped a little in pitch, but it remained unruffled. "How well would you say you knew Mr Gary?"

Curious, John turned his head round to look over his shoulder at Lyla Gary. The widow's arms remained crossed. She pursed her lips and quirked her left eyebrow at the new turn in the interrogation.

"What do you mean?" Malaika asked innocently. "Do you mean, how much did we know about each other?"

"Well, yes, but I'm also wondering how often you interacted in any given period. Did you usually lunch or attend church services together?"

The veiled woman took in a slow breath. "I usually remain in the choir loft for the entire service. Then, after the postlude, I go straight home. So, no, I didn't normally spend time with Mr Gary during or after church services. Other than this, he was a busy man most of the time."

Sherlock squinted. "I see. So, when _did_ you have a chance to talk with him?"

The smile returned to her eyes, but it was sadder. Her words, though not very detailed, brimmed with the gratitude and happiness that accompanied her memories of Gary. John swallowed down a sympathetic lump as she talked. "He would call me once a week to see how I was faring, or to tell me news of other music opportunities where I could earn extra money. Also, he used to invite me to dinner at his home on weekends." Her gaze suddenly went past Sherlock and met the frosty eyes of Mrs Gary.

Sherlock, aware of this shift, swivelled around and asked, "Can you confirm this, Mrs Gary?"

"Yes," Mrs Gary answered in a low tone, "but Malaika has not been to our house for about a month. Joseph's weekends started to fill up, and he either stayed late at the theatre or went to his flat."

The detective gave Mrs Gary a satisfied nod, then turned back to Malaika with an even more penetrating gaze. "When was the last time you saw Mr Gary?"

"This past Friday. We attended Miss Di Xiao's concert in the Crypt. She was performing as part of the Pianists of the World Series. We had lunch together before he went to the theatre for the day."

A little flag went up in John's head. This seemed like a slight contradiction to what she'd said a moment before, and what they already knew about Gary's lunching habits. "Was this some special occasion?" he asked her. "You said you didn't see each other very often."

Malaika let out a breathy, repressed laugh. It was weighted with melancholy. "He seemed to think so. I don't know why. We always enjoyed going to concerts together whenever it was possible. But he said something about wanting to celebrate my coming to England. Friday marked my eighth year, to the day."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows with interest. "That's a fortunate coincidence. You're sure that was the last time you saw or spoke to him?"

Malaika nodded slowly. The folds of her robes rustled very faintly against each other as she did. It sounded like the sombre murmur of waves on a quiet lake shore.

"Was there anything of consequence he mentioned? Something that might explain why anyone would want to murder him?"

This question had a peculiar effect on Miss Qadir. Her back straightened and her eyes widened. She didn't look surprised, but there was definitely realisation in her stance and expression. "You mean, it wasn't just a mugging after all? Someone . . . someone actually . . ." Although her hands stayed hidden, she raised them within the folds of her dress and seemingly clasped them together.

"I'm afraid so." Sherlock turned ninety degrees and took a step back, so that now both women were in his line of vision. "Do either of you have any idea who would want to kill your husband?"

Mrs Gary breathed in, but her lips remained shut. She gave a short head-shake.

"No," said Malaika. She must have suspected that the detective would only come here after the police already collected statements if this had been more than a mugging. Nevertheless, she looked pretty rattled. "I didn't think Mr Gary had any enemies. Not anyone I could name."

For some reason that John couldn't guess, Sherlock spoke directly to Malaika again with some of that fierce determination he'd shown Mrs Gary a few minutes before. "Did you know that Mr Gary had another residence in Central London, Miss Qadir?"

Malaika was as surprised by the question as John. "I . . . I believe he mentioned it at some point, but I cannot remember the circumstances. He never told me the address."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock took a small but calculated step towards Malaika. Whether in response to the question or the movement, her eyes flinched.

"I'm . . . I'm quite sure. But . . . if I do remember it, should I contact you?"

"That would be most helpful." Sherlock's hand slipped inside his coat, and after a short mess of rummaging through his voluminous pocket, he brought out a card with some clean black print John couldn't read quickly enough. "Here's my card. You have my mobile number, email and street address. Feel free to use whichever is most convenient."

"You have a card?" asked John. "Since when?"

"Since I was able to borrow the card printer at the Yard when everyone else was out for coffee and biscuits. There's a shop down the street that makes delicious chocolate hobnobs." Sherlock didn't look at John as he answered. Instead his expression returned to utter amiability as he handed Malaika the card. "Do you like hobnobs, Miss Qadir?"

Malaika let the tips of two of her fingers peek out from the sleeves to accept the card. She gave a short, ethereal laugh. "Yes, actually. But I have never had chocolate ones."

"You should. It's one of the few features of British cuisine that is actually palatable," said Sherlock, making Malaika giggle again. Reaching into his coat again, he turned around, stepped around John and held out his card to Mrs Gary. "And you, Mrs Gary? Have you ever tried hobnobs?"

The frown that occupied not only her mouth, but every muscle in her face, refused to retreat. "Of course I have." She coolly took the card from Sherlock's gloved hand and tucked it in the pocket of her tan trousers without taking one look at it. "What do you plan to do now?"

Despite the chilly attitude he'd been bombarded by, Sherlock's affable demeanour did not diminish. Her nodded respectfully. "We will continue the investigation until the parties responsible are identified. And I can assure you, Mrs Gary, that we will not sleep a wink until the murderer is brought to justice."

With all his heart, John hoped – no, _prayed_ – that he wasn't being literal.

Mrs Gary closed her eyes and allowed her head to droop. The tension in her face fell away. Any anger that still lingered in her eyes had been quelled by sincere gratitude toward the detective. The hard edge in her bronze eyes softened. "I certainly hope so. I . . . thank you for your efforts."

"You are with the police, then?" Malaika broke in. There was still a trace of timidity in her voice.

"No, we're not," said Sherlock. Then, all at once, as if he'd been struck by insight, he snapped his head round toward her. "Didn't you speak to them earlier?"

"N-no," Malaika admitted. "I came in after they had already told everyone what happened to Mr Gary."

"She's telling the truth," vouched Mrs Gary before Sherlock even asked. She did not appear any more pleased with how much information this conversation between Sherlock and the burqa-wearing woman had unearthed, but neither did she seem hell-bent to question Malaika's innocence in the matter.

Sherlock acknowledged her again with another nod. Then, from the look in his eyes, his mind buried itself in thought. All social considerations were thrown to the wind while Sherlock proceeded for the church entrance. John recognised the shift and followed him. His attention stay riveted to his friend except when he passed near Malaika and for the first time smelled her perfume. It was sharp and sweet, but very overpowering. He had to hide a cough so as not to offend.

He regarded Sherlock again once he could breathe properly. The detective slowed down his walk but still appeared withdrawn. He had a lot to think about, and whenever he felt he'd obtained enough data to mull over for the moment, all other worries were shoved to the backburner. John wondered if Sherlock was even in touch with the real world at this point. He must have been entering 'information analysis' mode – he might not have been able to see the people or the beautiful church they stood in anymore. That seemed a rather safe conclusion given Sherlock's pinched forehead, tight shoulders and unseeing glare at the space in front of him. Understandably, then, John jumped when Sherlock spun around and asked Malaika a question John had hoped not to hear in this interview.

"Miss Qadir, are you a Christian?"

Malaika started to at the impertinent question. Mrs Gary, on the other hand, dropped to arms to her side and straightened. Her eyes burned anew with a mix of long-awaited satisfaction and a strong desire to observe Malaika's response.

The veiled woman, taken aback as she was by the question, held back any flare of temper that might have risen inside her. It was hard to not be impressed, by John's standards. The question offended even him, for Malaika's sake. But it was precisely the same question he'd wanted to ask her all morning, and yet _didn't_ want to ask her at the same time.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. I was a Muslim, but I had considered converting for a very long time." Malaika managed to hold Sherlock's gaze while she explained herself. "I only had the courage to do so when I finally came to England. However . . . well, it's hard to leave an entire life behind you. Everything you have ever known, for a completely different life. And different people." Her eyes clung to Sherlock, but John fancied that they didn't really see him at all. Maybe they were secretly envisioning Mrs Gary. Or Mr Gary.

John could feel his insides quaking again from the memories that tried to jump in front of his mind's eye. He clamped his teeth to make them stop. If they stayed any longer, something might erupt out of him. And it could be something John knew would make things a hundred times worse and could never be taken back or undone. That was why he patted Sherlock on the arm as gentle encouragement to leave. Sherlock followed, although his eyes didn't leave Malaika until they were well down the aisle and nearly at the door. Malaika diverted her attention long before he did. She turned away to speak to Mrs Gary, whose face now donned an unpleasant scowl of superiority.

It didn't matter to John right now, even if it possibly did to Sherlock. He tried to toss the recent exchange from his brain as the cold air met his face like a wake-up call. John practically skipped down the church steps to swallow in the fresh air. A deep, cleansing sigh rushed out of his lungs.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked as he came down the steps.

"Yeah, fine." John's words came out short and rough.

The detective stepped around and looked his friend squarely in the eye. "You're sure?" He wasn't convinced.

John cleared his throat. "Well . . . it's just . . . Malaika seems like an . . . interesting character."

"Indeed." Sherlock raised his eyes to the church again. "We should keep a tab on her for more information."

John put his hands in his jacket pockets, considering the implications of Sherlock's statement. It didn't take much thought to guess what they were. "You think she's not telling us everything she knows."

"I'm sure of it. And, of course, Mrs Gary has her own suspicions."

That was another awkward subject John hadn't wanted to breach until they were safely out of earshot. He glimpsed around even now to make sure no one was walking or standing too closely to them to listen in. "Do you think she's right? I mean . . . does it seem like Gary and Malaika were . . .?"

"There's not enough data," Sherlock answered simply. "That veil didn't help, although the eyes always have something to say."

"What about in relation to Gary's death? Call me naive, but I can't see what either of them would have gained by killing him."

"Never take first impressions at face-value, John, especially if infidelity might be involved." Sherlock started walking away from the church toward the street, in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, which made John wonder what their next step would be. He joined Sherlock and matched his relatively relaxed pace. They didn't end up going very far, anyway, for Sherlock eyed an unoccupied bench and decided to take a seat. John followed suit, grateful to be sitting down after all this walking and talking for the last hour.

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, propped his elbows on his knees and pressed his clasped hands against his chin. "It's a puzzle, isn't it? Miss Qadir's relationship with Gary. Neither Gabriel nor Mrs Gary brought it up."

John adjusted himself in his seat. "Maybe it wasn't a well-known thing. That would support the obvious suspicion."

Sherlock harrumphed. "So dull."

John rolled his eyes. "Just because it's 'dull' to you doesn't mean it isn't true."

"And just because it's the obvious suspicion doesn't mean it's true, either."

"Yeah, but what about that business about him being her benefactor? That seems at least a little suspicious. And the fact that he was becoming distant from his wife. Obviously their marriage was in trouble."

"On her end, perhaps."

John blinked. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock quickly sat up. "Mrs Gary's account of their marriage_ is_ a bleak one, and the fact that she had so little presence in the theatre suggests that Mr Gary liked to keep his work and his home life separate."

"It also seemed like his work was more important to him," John pointed out.

"An infidelity could explain the distance from his wife, and the second residence," Sherlock mused, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "But his ring . . . that's what doesn't fit."

John raised his eyebrows. "His ring?"

"Remember when I tried to pull it off? It wouldn't budge."

When he racked his brain, John did manage to remember how much trouble Sherlock had just twisting the damn thing. It'd been a tight fit. "He could have worn the ring even if he was having an affair," John argued. "That doesn't suggest much."

"It wasn't cleaned very often, just like hers, despite the fact that both took regular care of themselves. The clothes, the manicured hands, the polished cufflinks and jewellery – appearances were important to them. Just consider their respective professions. A lay leader at a well-known church, and a successful businessman in the competitive world of theatre. And appearances are obviously still important to the widow."

Another realisation hit John. "Do you think that's why Mrs Gary didn't direct the police to Malaika?"

"I can believe that Lyla Gary would be willing to conceal a scandal from the police and press, even if it only involved her husband. She has no proof, either."

John hummed as he thought it over. So, Mr and Mrs Gary are married for nearly twelve years. About four years into that marriage, Mr Gary meets an Afghan woman, Malaika Qadir, a gifted musician in need of help. For one reason or another, he becomes her patron. He gets her a job at his church, where his wife works. For lack of a better phrase, he 'takes care of her' for the next eight years. It was easy to understand why Mrs Gary wouldn't like it, and why she might suspect her husband, of whom she already knows so little, of having more than purely noble intentions. And then there was the question with Gary's past. Malaika didn't seem to know anything about it, but she did know that Gary had a flat of his own in the city, away from his wife. Was that because he told her about it? Or was that their rendezvous point?

Both John and Sherlock mulled over these facts and questions, but John's mind started to drift. He couldn't get the image of Malaika and her burqa out of his head. It shouldn't have bothered him this much. Well, he shouldn't have let it bother him. It wouldn't let him be, though. His mind oscillated between that and the more pertinent aspects of the case when Sherlock interrupted his ponderings.

"There's something else bothering you, isn't there? Just tell me what it is before I guess it. You know I'll find out either way."

John looked at Sherlock. Yes, it'd be pretty futile to keep skirting the matter if Sherlock was just going to pry it out of him in the end. He sighed.

"Well . . . Malaika said she's a Christian."

Sherlock's eyes and blank expression didn't change. "Yes."

"But . . . but how can she . . . I mean . . ." John groaned. He had to stop to collect his thoughts. "Why would she still wear the burqa if she's not a Muslim anymore? I just don't understand why anyone would subject themselves to that!"

Sherlock blinked and looked askance to his left, then faced forward again in a gradual motion and assumed his previous pose. Now, however, he rested his chin atop his hands. Not sure of the meaning of this stance, John tilted forward for a better view of his friend's face.

"Well? What do you think?"

"I can't say I'm an expert on the Islamic faith," said Sherlock, staring straight ahead, "but my general understanding is that women wear the burqa, or the niqab or the hijab, as a gesture of modesty."

"Yes, but it's the Qur'an that tells them they must wear them," John explained. "And I'm not saying I'm an expert, either, but why would someone wear a garment that hides your face – that represses your identity – because the religion you grew up with tells you to, even though you're no longer a follower of that religion anymore? It . . . it just boggles my mind. And it . . ."

John stopped himself again. Specific memories started to resurface again. Not just his time in service in Afghanistan, but a more particular circumstance that still haunted him.

"And what?" asked Sherlock.

Afraid to say anything more, John sighed through his nose. "Nothing. We can talk about it later."

Sherlock turned his gaze on his friend. "I'm not in the position to make any sort of judgment one way or the other. And it doesn't do you any good to bother yourself with it. You can't do anything, anyway."

There was an angry buzzing in John's gut. He felt his neck grow warm. "I don't need a lecture, Sherlock. I know it's not a very politically correct attitude. But can't you at least try to see my perspective?"

"I'm not arguing against your perspective."

"You're not being very sympathetic to it, either."

"This tiff is getting us nowhere." Sherlock rose from his seat and shook out the creases in his coat. "Lestrade should be at the theatre with the necessary equipment. Let's go."

The bile boiling inside John took its time in settling back down. He shouldn't be getting upset, and he shouldn't be blaming Sherlock for not understanding his feelings since he didn't even _know_ about . . ._ that_. He decided to wait a few seconds before getting up. Only then did the implications of Sherlock's statement reach him.

"We're going back? Why? Sherlock? Sherlock! What do you mean 'equipment'?"


	8. A Hole Where A Hole Shouldn't Be

Chapter 7: A Hole Where a Hole Shouldn't Be

When Sherlock and John returned to the Palace Theatre's foyer, there were ten times as many people milling about and talking than before. There was an almost equal mix of janitors, ushers and policemen crowding the stairs and hallways as the pair hunted for Lestrade. Most of the employers of the theatre, whom John assumed had been called in during their off-hours, wore their regular street clothes. The problem of identity was resolved as coppers passed around nametags and pens and instructed everyone to write down their name and job title. _And I thought Cambridge Circus looked like a circus_, John thought with a cheeky grin.

The detective and doctor found Lestrade on a carpeted staircase speaking with Mr Gabriel, who still wore his uniform as the theatre's staff director. As they approached the detective inspector, John noted Gabriel's moist bald head and sagging shoulders. The last few hours must have been exhausting, not to mention upsetting considering the reason for this investigation. Lestrade had his hands on his hips as he questioned Gabriel, his head cocked to the side in his characteristically weary 'just tell me what I want to know' pose.

"Do you have it?" Sherlock interrupted, paying to no mind to Gabriel, who jumped a little at his reappearance.

Lestrade looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. "Do you _mind_?"

"Do. You. Have it?"

The DI grumbled. "You mean the coat? Hopkins has it. You remember him, yeah? Shorn, reddish brown hair. Keith Richards stubble. He should be hanging around the foyer. We'll be gathering the staff down there in a few minutes for a collective inquiry."

"Excellent." A small smile of victory dawned on Sherlock's face. "And what about the office? Have you examined it yet?"

"We're still waiting on another polilight – the first one burned out on us. The Yard said they'd send us a new one ten minutes ago. Don't worry about that right now. Take a look at the coat, tell me what you think, and then we'll figure out what to do from there."

"Exactly how long do you expect this will take?" asked Gabriel, trying to sound as inoffensive as possible.

''We'll try to get your people out of here as quickly as we can," said Lestrade, "but we have to follow protocol and do a thorough job of collecting statements and evidence."

"So expect it to be a long while," Sherlock cut in again. He earned a sharp glare from Lestrade.

John rather missed the peace of a nearly empty theatre for their murder investigation. At least he could hear himself think. With so many people chatting and bumping into each other in the narrow passageways and foyer, he was surprised Sherlock could think properly. The good news was that spotting Hopkins proved pretty easy. He was a young guy – mid-twenties or thereabouts – and he came into Lestrade's unit shortly before Sally Donovan went on holiday. Sherlock hadn't exchanged many words with him, as far as John knew, but he seemed like a sharp bloke with a positive attitude about learning from his superiors. He didn't share the kind of friction with Sherlock Sally did. Maybe his age and easy-going manner had something to do with it. But with that mindset there was also the risk of being easily distracted. It took him a while to get focused on the matters at hand. John and Sherlock witnessed a perfect example of this problematic, but by no means odious, flaw when they found him.

Hopkins was leaning against the concession stand, chatting up Meg. John arched his eyebrows at the sight. He seemed a little too relaxed for an up-and-coming constable in the midst of a murder inquiry. His glistening smile and slouched posture, as well as his undivided attention toward the girl, suggested a keener interest in obtaining a phone number rather than a statement.

But John couldn't criticise. In fact, it was reassuring to be reminded that policemen were human beings, too, with likable personalities. Meg looked like she enjoyed his company and conversation. She returned his smiles and shifted her body back and forth in a friendly, almost inviting manner. At one point she scratched the skin behind her left ear, making her small hooped earrings jingle.

"Hopkins!" Sherlock boomed while they were still a meter away from the couple. It made John jump. "Good to see you again. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Oh, hey! Good to see you, too, Mr Holmes!" Hopkins straightened himself and turned toward Sherlock. Only now did John notice him holding the coat Lestrade mentioned. It was wrapped inside a transparent garment bag. Or a huge evidence bag.

"Wish I could say the same," said Meg, her cheerier disposition now disintegrating before John's eyes. Her cattier self took over as she eyed Sherlock. She seemed to be reliving their previous encounter with unfavourable feelings.

"Please," said Sherlock with a sardonic smirk, "don't let my presence put a damper on your pleasant mood. The unfortunate passing of your employer has done enough of that, I'm sure."

Meg rolled her eyes and glanced away in disgust. John wanted to smack Sherlock upside the head. Hopkins just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock ignored all their responses. "May I have a look at that?" he asked Hopkins, pointing at the bag with the coat.

"Of course. Special delivery for Sherlock Holmes." Hopkins handed over the clothing article in its protective casing with care.

"So _that's_ your name," Meg remarked snidely. She rested her forearms on the counter top and stared at the detective from under black eyebrows. "Or should I assume that's a pseudonym, too?"

''It doesn't really matter if you know my real name," said Sherlock, unzipping the coat and laying out with its back facing up. "All you need to know is that I'm the one who will find out who killed Mr Gary, whether you decide to cooperate or not. Granted, the more helpful you are, the more quickly I'll solve the case." He snapped open his magnifying glass and examined the bullet hole and the surrounding area. "The question you should ask yourself is how soon you would like to see Mr Gary's killer brought to justice." He peeked up at her. His gaze cut like a knife blade. "Do we understand each other, Miss Bucket?"

Meg scratched her arm and sucked on her upper teeth. "All right. I get you, Mr Holmes. Mind telling me what you're looking at now, and what it's got to do with anything?"

"This is the coat Gary was wearing when his body was found in the alley," Sherlock explained. "I'm examining the outside of the jacket for a very important piece of evidence."

John came up behind Sherlock and peeked over his shoulder. It was, indeed, Gary's trench coat, and the bullet hole in plain sight for all to see. Blood had soaked through both sides from the fatal wound.

Suddenly comprehending what she saw, Meg took a step back and steadied herself against the wall. John could see from her face that she was starting to feel sick to her stomach.

"Sherlock," he said, "this might not be the best place to—"

"Take a look at the stains." Sherlock shoved the magnifier into John's hands and pulled him toward the coat.

With reluctant obedience and an apologetic look to Meg, John examined the coat through the glass. At first glance nothing stood out to him. The hole had an elliptical shape, as expected of a bullet passing through material like this. The longer he looked, however, the more John got the feeling that something – just a tiny little something – was off. It might have been the way the fabric frayed along the edges, or the proportions of the length and width. Whatever it was, it was subtle and elusive to him.

"Do you see it?" asked Sherlock, leaning in over John.

"I see . . . something, but I can't put my finger on it."

"It's a well done imitation, I have to admit." John could hear the pleased grin in his voice. "It has the artist's touch. But there are still telltale signs, like in a painting that can almost be mistaken for a photograph. _Almost_."

"You mean it's not a real bullet hole," said John. His instincts as a doctor and war vet had been directing him to a conclusion along those lines, yet the fact that Sherlock could see it with such clarity and confidence still amazed him. "Which means Gary wasn't wearing the overcoat when he was killed. Someone put it on him after the fact to make it look like he'd been murdered outdoors."

Sherlock nodded, his eye glittering. "The culprit tore a hole in the coat using the small blade of a Swiss Army knife, soaked the inside around the hole in Gary's blood, and then slipped it on him and lay him back in wherever his blood ended up so that—"

"Please stop," interrupted Meg.

Sherlock and John both looked up. "Sorry?" Sherlock asked.

Raising a hand, Meg closed her eyes and breathed in. "Just . . . please stop. I don't think I can handle anymore."

Hopkins cleared his throat and stepped in. "Maybe we should put away this evidence for now, sir. No offense."

Sherlock blinked several times. He looked back and forth between the young cop and Meg. John observed this while his own chest brimmed with guilt and embarrassment, which made him want to choke on his own saliva. After a minute of trying to sort out what just happened, Sherlock finally said, "I'm . . . sorry, Miss Bucket." His eyes danced around while he spoke, reluctant to stare directly at the young woman.

Meg nodded shortly and said no more. She folded her arms and leaned her whole body against the wall. Her lips pressed together and her eyes closed. If she opened them, John was sure tears would immediately spill out.

Somewhere in the distant recesses of the crowded room, Lestrade's voice managed to pierce the ruckus. "Sherlock! We've got the polilight! We'll take a quick peek at the office before we start the general inquiry."

Sherlock didn't answer. Now he did look at Meg, scanning her over with unusual confusion and concern. John didn't want to ruin the moment, but there were still things to attend to. He gently patted his friend on the arm. "Did you hear that, Sherlock?"

"Of course." After a second's delay, he turned to John. He seemed to be trying to swallow down his conflicting emotions. At the same time, though, he read John's face. He didn't know what Sherlock saw, but John hoped he saw his own embarrassment, even if its importance waned by the second. They still had a murder to solve.

Whatever it was he did find, it compelled Sherlock to raise his shoulders as he inhaled. He blinked away the doubt and worry from his eyes. He was his normal self, for the most part. "Be right there, Lestrade!"


	9. The Chair, Reprise

Hmm, I hope this lack of reviews for the last chapter was just a temporary lag. I know my fic got shoved to the next page pretty quickly, but still . . . even critiques/suggestions are welcome. I'm trying to post my chapters more frequently in order to I get this done by September, so some of the new stuff might seem rushed. I'm still proofreading everything at least twice, but do let me know if the quality starts dropping.

* * *

Chapter 8: The Chair, Reprise

Interpersonal relations didn't improve much from the incident with Meg. John hadn't even turned his thoughts to any future issues in that department, since he still worried for Meg after Sherlock bounded up the stairs toward Gary's office like a bloodhound on the scent. It wouldn't have done John much good to consider who else might have a tiff with Sherlock – his friend had a proclivity to offend or stir up an argument with anyone without meaning to. Unfortunately, the chance of there being a war of wills is understandably increased when dealing with an old acquaintance.

John came in only a few seconds behind Sherlock, so he managed to catch the aftershock of the lightning storm of tension that had erupted between the detective and a certain scowling forensics expert.

"Here we are again," greeted Anderson in a grating, nasal tone. He was clutching a polilight in his right hand. It hadn't been turned on yet, which made sense since afternoon sunlight still filled the room. The sunbeams had a more golden hue now, which lent the room a warmer, more summery atmosphere. With Sherlock and Anderson exchanging glares, though, the scene was turning into an American cowboy western.

"It was just this morning we last saw each other," remarked Sherlock. "I thought it felt too short."

Anderson scrunched his forehead more, which didn't help to make him more winning appearance-wise. "I wouldn't need to be here if _you_ hadn't called us in."

"I'm surprised you came as willingly as you did. Look at you, polilight in hand, just rearing to go."

"Unlike you, this is my _job_."

Sherlock snickered. "Then try to be more competent at it."

"Can we get focused, _please_?" broke in Lestrade.

"Certainly." Sherlock relinquished his glowering and rescanned the room, only to break out in an expression of angry surprise. His eyes flashed fire as he whirled on Lestrade.

"Who brought the chair back?"

John jolted. His eyes went right to the desk, and his jaw dropped. The chair, or what they had to assume was the original, had reappeared. The top of the back stood about a metre and a half above the ground. The dark wood – probably oak – looked thick and hardy, even with its intricate, finely-carved moulding. Its design made him think of a toned-down, less 'royalised' version of Edward the Confessor's chair in Westminster Abbey. The seat and back were cushioned by dark-red upholstery embroidered with gold fleur-du-lies. There didn't appear to be a speck wrong with it.

The frantic question Sherlock nearly shouted only evoked a questioning, befuddled look from Lestrade. He was probably challenging Sherlock's sanity. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock emphatically pointed at the item of furniture. "That chair was not in here earlier today. It'd been missing since last night." He stalked over toward Lestrade, his eyes narrowing but still round with urgency. "When I asked Gabriel who took the chair, he said he didn't know. Neither did Nadir Khan, the janitor who _should _have cleaned the room this morning but didn't because it'd already been cleaned!"

"Mind explaining why a chair is so damn important to begin with?" said Anderson. The head of the lamp rested in his other hand, as if he were about to use it like a cricket bat.

Sherlock snapped his head toward Anderson. "If you had eyes, you'd know it's the key to our killers. Whoever took the chair out of here did it specifically to hide the crime scene."

"But how on earth could the crime scene be here? Gary's body was in Stacey Street. Did the murderers _teleport_ him there from here? I'd like to see you explain _that_."

John cleared his throat before Sherlock could respond. "Actually, they used the sewers."

Lestrade and Anderson looked at John, equally in disbelief. "The _sewers_?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Well, the smell on his clothes and . . . um . . ." Try as he did, John felt his grip on the little steps they had taken to reach this deduction slipping. He glanced at Sherlock for help.

Sherlock nodded at his friend. He then addressed Lestrade. "Gary's body was coated in a faint scent of bodily excrements, but the stains on his moustache from the coffee he'd been drinking indicate that he wasn't getting sloshed in a pub the previous night, nor could the smell be explained by direct contact with such substances. We also discovered that a nearby manhole in the concealed alley had been disturbed several hours earlier, strongly suggesting that the culprits used the sewers – hence the exposure to the foul odours – to transport Gary's body from another location to divert attention away from the real crime scene."

The detective delivered this summary lightning-fast. Anderson and Lestrade needed a few seconds to digest it all, while at the same time exchange incredulous looks. Anderson hadn't stopped scowling completely, but when he folded his arms John took that as him taking the defensive. John had to try not to smile.

"All right," Anderson conceded. "So now you think it took place here. And that's why you want us here now – as confirmation."

Sherlock took in a huge breath and rolled his eyes with theatrical drama. "_Yes_. Finally you follow. It's about time."

"But why should we assume he was killed here?" Anderson pressed. "There's no sign of a struggle. What about bullet holes? Blood stains?"

All signs of relief peeled away from Sherlock's face. He looked askance at John. He'd done enough explaining. "Doctor?"

It was a bit funny, stepping in for Sherlock like this. Like he was tagging him out. Keeping his amusement in check, John stepped toward Anderson. "The angle of Gary's wound suggests his killer had been standing above him, which fits this setting since he was probably in his chair. Also, when Sherlock and I came in here this morning, there was a strong smell of cleaning fluid. The janitors on the morning shift usually cleaned this office, instead of the night people, because Gary would leave in the wee hours of the morning."

One of the other members of Lestrade's unit, or someone on Anderson's forensics team, drew the curtains around the window shut. The room suddenly fell into gloom, almost like they were travelling back in time to that dark, ominous night when Gary drew his last breath in that very room.

"There is no record of Gary's office having been cleaned by one of the regular staff today, so it seems the killers came back and cleaned up the scene before anyone had access to the office."

Lestrade shifted his weight as he experienced a mini-epiphany. "That means one of the people involved must have had a key to the office."

"That's a considerable possibility," Sherlock replied absently. He was performing another visual inspection of the room, starting from the carpet and moving his way up the walls toward the ceiling. Then, without warning, he approached one of the policemen standing by the window. "Pardon me, but I'd like a quick look at the window."

The policeman complied. Sunlight returned to the room for a short moment, just through the crack in the curtain while Sherlock ran a careful eye over the dimensions of the small sash window.

"You said the chair was missing?" Anderson queried, squinting as he turned over each piece of information over in his brain.

"Right," said John. "We didn't find out who took it, but we're pretty sure the chair was taken in order to remove the bullet that killed Gary. And to clean off any blood."

"Well, they did a pretty thorough job," said Lestrade, throwing his eye over the room. "Looks as clean as a whistle."

"Bah!" Every head turned to Sherlock and watched as he whipped away the curtains he'd been momentarily tangled in. When he was free, he brushed off his coat with a chopping motion. "You and your men have trampled over any possible footprints I could have picked up! How can I identify the killers if the evidence is erased by a herd of buffalo?"

Anderson loudly rolled his eyes. So much for earning his gradual admiration, John mentally grumbled. Lestrade just sucked on the inside of his cheek and said nothing. The policeman who parted the curtains for Sherlock drew them together again, plunging everyone into darkness.

Meeting silence, Sherlock sighed. "At least there's the biological evidence. Anderson?"

Anderson's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, so _now _you need my help."

"Would you rather be a help, or a useless lump like usual?"

Anderson waved the polilight light around like a magic wand. "Where would you like it directed, Your Highness? In your eyes, perhaps?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'd be more interested in shining it in your flat. It should yield some _very_ interesting results."

"All right!" John interrupted. "Enough flirting!"

A dead silence descended. All eyes alighted on John. Damn. He hadn't really meant to say that out loud. Sherlock and Anderson's faces matched each other in surprise. Lestrade was surprised, too, but there was enough of a hint of a smile to ease John's otherwise utter embarrassment. Pressing his lips against his teeth, he looked at Anderson and Sherlock again and buried his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Sorry."

Sherlock glanced at Anderson, then at John. Only then did the corner of his mouth make a tiny upward turn. He regarded Anderson again. "The desk and the bit of carpet behind it, first."

After a breath of hesitation, Anderson resigned with a quiet sigh and switched on the light. It hummed to life and glowed like a UV lamp. The pale lilac glare interrupted the darkness. John squinted. He felt like he'd been thrown into a scene from a sci-fi film.

Sherlock let Anderson go past him and circle around the desk first, but he still followed close behind to keep an eye out for whatever traces of biological residue the polilight revealed. John followed Sherlock in kind. Kneeling on the ground directly to the left of the chair, Anderson held the light a little above his eyelevel and slowly passed it along the edge of the desk and above the floor. The strange light wasn't quite as bright now, but it made some pinhead-sized spatters on the desk turn white. The heads of the spatters faced away from the chair, indicating that Gary had either been facing this way or the opposite way when he was shot. Squeezing around Sherlock's right shoulder and standing on his toes to look over Anderson's head, John also observed splotches the size of 50 p coins on the floor. Their shape and the droplet-like dots surrounding them suggested they were traces of Gary's blood still embedded in the carpet. The chair, however, was surprisingly free of any stains even under the polilight. It must have undergone one hell of a scrubbing.

"Good," muttered Sherlock. "Now, let's see where this trail leads us. Take it slowly around the room. Look for footprints and drag marks."

"I know what to look for," Anderson clipped. Hearing Sherlock on the verge of a reply, John instinctually grabbed his friend's arm. Sherlock turned to him with a sharp gaze. It was a formidable look, but John still shook his head at whatever it was Sherlock had planned to say in retaliation. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the reprimand, but kept his peace.

They both tailed Anderson even as he walked backwards. They needed to get a sense of which way the killers carried Gary's body. John's heart quickened with panic when he saw the trail of blood dry up. There were a few drips leading away from the chair toward the right-side wall, but even those came to an end as the three men boxed themselves into the far right corner of the room.

Sherlock straightened, furrowing his forehead in thought. "Where did the rest of the blood go?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"If he'd been shot in the chair," John noted, "most of it was probably left on there. But there'd have to be _something _still on it if that's the case. No one could –"

"That's because it's not the same chair."

Both John and Anderson straightened up. "What are you talking about?" Anderson snapped.

"It's probably been made to look like the same chair, although we wouldn't know since we didn't see the original." Sherlock scoured the carpet for more blood traces. "Check by the door, Anderson."

He did. There wasn't a single traitorous drop. They checked the sill of the window, too, and the carpet beneath it. They were clean. Sherlock clenched his fists tighter and tighter as they searched for some further hint of a trail.

"How did they get Gary's body out of here?" The detective pressed his hands together as he muttered aloud. "The blood we've seen so far suggests he was carried _this_ way, but . . . where to?"

There was nothing in the far right corner to suggest any kind of exit. The wall within the corner was bare, and the carpet ran all the way to the nook. Sherlock even went on his knees and yanked on the carpet, but it wouldn't give. When Sherlock stood up, he wiggled his fingers nervously.

"Something . . . there's something I've missed."

"There's a shocker," Anderson announced. Lestrade shushed him.

John racked his brain, too. The only viable means for the murderers to leave the office with Gary's body was the sole door. The only other exit point was the window, but no one, not even an acrobat, could climb down the sheer wall with a corpse in the middle of one of the busiest parts of London. Even if, by some miracle, it could be achieved, it would draw the attention of someone nearby. Nothing about it seemed possible. The door was the only solution.

"Sherlock," John cautiously offered while his friend paced the room, apparently oblivious to everyone, "could the killers have got Gary through the door without leaving a blood trail? Maybe they wrapped him in something to stop the blood from dripping everywhere."

Sherlock growled. "But if they did and kept Gary wrapped that way, that doesn't explain the smell from the sewer. The encasement would have protected him."

"Speaking of the sewers," Lestrade put forward, "how does anyone get to them from inside a theatre? I assume you've ruled out the idea they ever went outside with Gary's body, in the middle of the West End."

"Of course we have," snapped Sherlock. "We're not idiots."

"That's what I thought. So, what's your explanation?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to Lestrade. "Of what?"

"Of how we get from the office to the sewers."

A quick look around on Sherlock and John's part showed that everyone was eagerly awaiting an answer. What magical deduction had the great detective made in that area?

An awkward second passed before Sherlock replied. "That's why we have your unit here. We need them to scour the lower levels of this theatre and locate an access point. There must be one. It's just a question of finding it."

"Oh, _that's_ reassuring," whispered Anderson.

Sherlock glared at him. "What have I told you about talking, Anderson?"

"We should ask the staff, too," John suggested. "They probably have an idea."

"Right," Sherlock quickly followed, his eyes flitting to John for a second.

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. "All right, all right. We'll address the staff first before embarking on some wild goose chase. Are you done in here, Sherlock?"

"Give me another minute. You can turn off your magic wand, Anderson. Gentlemen, the curtains?"

The hum from the polilight died down. Anderson continued to pout as he returned the device to its black toolbox, which John could see more definitively now that natural light returned to the chamber. Sherlock barely waited for the room to be illuminated before returning to the chair and running his eyes over it through his pocket magnifier.

"Before your men leave, Lestrade, make sure they take fingerprints of this. Did anyone see who brought it in?"

Scratching the back of his silvery head, Lestrade replied, "It was here when we arrived. Fingerprints have already been taken."

Sherlock snorted in annoyance at the first fact. "Glad to know you're on top of things."

No one said anything. Even John wasn't sure if it was meant to be taken as sarcasm. After examining the chair, Sherlock made a beeline for the door and inspected the keyhole on each side. He was at it for only a few seconds, and when he seemed finished and returned his attention to Lestrade, all previous complaints regarding the chair vaporised.

"What have you learned about the staff thus far?"

"Aside from Marcus Gabriel, the house manager, there're eighteen cleaners who work rotating shifts throughout the week. They work 6-hour shifts in groups of six. There's also a cleaner specifically assigned to the boxes, a Mrs Julia Bucket. She's been here the longest of anyone."

"Meg Bucket's mother?" inquired Sherlock.

"Grandmother, actually. Still sound of mind, but tough as a walnut. Didn't like giving us any more information than she liked or deemed necessary."

Sherlock just nodded, his eyes drifting away from anyone in the room. John could practically see the gears in his head turning. They certainly had an interesting cast of characters on their hands. The interrogation to follow would hopefully be entertaining as well as informative.

After giving these facts a few moments of consideration, Sherlock's pale eyes sharpened on Lestrade again. "What information did you gather about the staff who worked today and last night?"

Lestrade brought out a piece of notebook paper from his jacket pocket. He read off a list of the names of janitors who had been on shift the previous night, all of whom in some way confirmed that Gary was still in his office when they left. Only Julia Bucket's name stood out to John in memory. Each of them further corroborated on the fact that Joseph Gary usually stayed past the closing hour in his office, and he requested that no one disturb him while he worked. So the cleaning of his office normally fell to the staff on the morning shift. Aside from Gary, the cleaners were always the last to leave.

"Does Mrs Bucket come in for every night shift?" asked Sherlock when Lestrade took a beat to breathe.

"Essentially. She usually comes in at about four o'clock to give herself enough time to detail every box well before anyone arrives for the evening performance. She also comes in on some mornings to prepare for the matinees."

"Very attentive of her."

Lestrade, not having anything of importance to say in response, opted to continue his report, giving the names of the janitors working today's morning shift. This time, Nadir Khan's name jumped out at John.

"You remember Gabriel being here, too," Lestrade tacked on to his read-out.

"Of course." Sherlock gave him a cutting look. "Is house management the only group of employees equipped with keys to the theatre?"

"It seems that way," said Lestrade. He seemed glad to be certain of at least a few things.

"Can we rule out everyone except the staff, though?" John folded his arms. He began considering just how many people worked at the Palace Theatre, and how many might endeavour a means of obtaining a key to the building.

Sherlock hefted a sigh. "We need to start somewhere. But we do at least know that the lock wasn't forced."

"We do?" questioned Lestrade. He tossed a glimpse at the door to the office.

"None of the usual scratches that come from the tools of a lock-picker are present. And Nadir mentioned that the office was locked when he came to clean it in the morning. So at least one of the killers must have keys, or copies of keys, to the theatre building _and_ the office. "

The detectives, and their assistants, let a pensive silence rest on them for a minute as the buzz of information in their brains died down. Lestrade then ordered a clean-up of supplies. Sherlock and John began to remove themselves from the room.

All at once, Sherlock's body went rigid. His eyes doubled in size and his mouth hung open.

John noted his friend's state and immediately grew worried. Or maybe he should have been hopeful that he'd had a breakthrough. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him. He swivelled around toward the detective inspector. "I cannot believe I didn't bloody remember!"

Lestrade turned away from the police clean-up to face Sherlock. "Forget what?"

"Security guards! I should have remembered! Doesn't this theatre have security guards? Why did none of them note anything?"

"Oh!" Lestrade slapped his face against his forehead. "It completely slipped my mind. I _did_ ask Gabriel about the security here."

"And?" Sherlock looked as wired as an electric fence.

Lestrade dropped his hand back down to his side. "He said they don't have security guards."

John chimed in with Sherlock in exclaiming, "_What?_"

"That's impossible!" Anderson inputted. "What kind of idiot was running this place?"

"He said it got to a point where it wasn't necessary." Lestrade's face was as pinched in bafflement as the rest of them. "He didn't explain any further – that was when the polilight arrived."

Sherlock and John looked at one another. Their utter bewilderment was mutual. Sherlock's eyes then moved to the chair and the parts of the carpet where Gary's blood continued to linger, invisible as it was to the naked eye.

"Well," said Sherlock after a lengthy pause, "it looks like they'll be reconsidering that decision."


	10. The Theatre Ghost

Yay, reviews! A huge thank-you to everyone who has left them. Especially to Eyebrows2 for her Brit-fix - I'll get around to editing that. Eventually. Heh. Also a huge thanks to Naranne, who has agreed to beta-read my story (when she is able to get around to it XD). And to my sis, who gave me ideas and proofread for me after I kept bugging her to. You guys are _awesome_. Another uber-long chapter coming your way. Mwahaha.

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Chapter 9: The Theatre Ghost

John's stomach rolled over as he re-entered the foyer and was hit by a gangbang of faces, all sharing the same glowering expression of lethargy, impatience, and simmering irritation. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. His eyes immediately found Nadir, who to his credit didn't look nearly as put off by all this waiting and crowding as the police did their business upstairs. He stood against one of the fake rose marble pillars, arms folded across his broad chest and gaze drifting from face to face in distant nonchalance. John couldn't say he looked relaxed. It was the same stoic air he recalled seeing earlier when Nadir answered Sherlock's rather direct questions. He didn't startle easily.

The doctor wasn't sure whether this should reassure him or make him suspicious. Regardless how anyone else might feel, he didn't find anything odious or questionable in Nadir's attitude. The very fact, though, that he stood out to John might have been a warning flag. His instincts once again tried to tell him something. He didn't know why, but the message was clear: _Keep an eye on this guy. Watch what he does and says._

Sherlock had encouraged John over the course of their friendship to trust those instincts, even if he had no hard evidence to justify them yet. Many times Sherlock proposed that human brains had a natural capacity to be very observant and make insightful inferences about situations, but people cluttered them with so much useless junk that these inductions rarely made it to the conscious level. That was where 'instinct' came in. It was deeply rooted in a person's innate understanding of the world that developed from infancy, and could reach high levels of efficiency if honed properly. Man needed logic, but he also still needed animal intuition.

Although Sherlock didn't say as much, John eventually understood that this was why he published _The Science of Deduction_, and why John's writing style irritated him so much. He _wanted_ people to understand how they could use their minds the way he did, which to him was the most sensible and useful way to exercise one's mental powers. There was probably something to that, too. But then, John reasoned with mirth, if everyone could do what Sherlock Holmes did, the man would be out of a job.

After mentally logging away Nadir, he moved on to the next person of interest. This ended up being an elderly woman sitting in one of the chairs. John placed her in her early sixties. That meant that if she was Mrs Bucket (he couldn't read her name tag at that distance), she and Meg's mother must have had their kids young. There were enough physical similarities to warrant a biological connection: the small, snub nose, the almond-shaped black eyes, indications of the same shade of black hair, although Mrs Bucket's had since greyed over. Her hair was also chin-length, while Meg wrapped hers in a bun. John noted the absence of a cane, so she could walk around with relative ease, as required by the position of box keeper. The lines around her mouth and the hooded eyelids suggested that she strove to exhibit patience and calm in the throes of this crisis, but her endurance was beginning to fade. She probably wanted nothing more than to go home.

Unable to resist, John's attention migrated to the concession stand and latched onto Meg, who still held her post. Her ennui and annoyance were more evident, as expected in someone young. She drummed her pink-polished nails against the counter top in a manner quite similar to Sherlock's. Her scowling eyebrows, though, and the deep crease forming between them were interesting. They suggested more than just loss of patience from waiting. She still looked genuinely disturbed, even upset by the situation. Her reaction to the overcoat earlier was completely understandable, but could there be more to it? How well did she know Joseph Gary? Maybe she considered him a mentor of sorts, or just a caring elder. John didn't want to venture into 'adultery' territory again, especially not with a twenty-something-year-old girl. Maybe that was too much prejudice on his part, but . . . well, there it was. Better not to think about it unless something else cropped up to support it.

The rest of the people populating the space weren't that remarkable in appearance. Aside from the Buckets, there were three other female members of the staff present. One woman in her thirties, her name also scratched out in tiny script he couldn't read, might have been very pretty once. An English rose complexion, deep blue eyes, a slender throat and silky auburn hair. Now, however, she looked like a wilting lily. The colour had dulled almost to ash in her cheeks. She appeared to suffer from some form of neurosis, too, judging from the way she kept lightly touching her forehead and fiddling with the lapis pendant hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Her eyes flitted around, looking at no one in particular. She reminded John of a squirrel lingering near a group of unwary dogs, trying to not draw attention to itself.

Alarming as this behaviour was, John diagnosed these as chronic symptoms, not the actions of a guilty conscience. Not guilty in connection with this murder, at least. When he passed by her later, he saw the name on the tag identify her as Cecilia James.

The other two women, Adelaide Chandler and Mimi Valerius, held any interest only because they kept chatting and tittering between themselves. The local gossips. But their camaraderie surprised John, mostly due to the wide age difference. Adelaide didn't appear to be much older than Meg, but she had the attitude of a teenage schoolgirl, eying people and whispering what he assumed were off-the-cuff remarks to Mimi. What a shame, too – she was a looker. Full strawberry-blonde hair, rose-pink lips, radiant green eyes and a curvy figure. How did she end up as a janitor, looking like that? Part-time student? Under-educated? Could she have been more lower class than appearances indicated? He couldn't guess in the slightest.

Mimi Valerius could not have been more different. A fifty-seven-year-old spinster with mouse-brown hair tied in a queue, she didn't look like the sort of person Adelaide would have ever associated with had they been schoolmates. Through a pair of thick-lens glasses, though, Mimi stared and assessed other people with as little inhibition and poise as her younger companion. Maybe they had had difficulty finding anyone who was as eager to talk about other people, and when they did manage to connect, age and looks became obsolete. But, to be fair, Mimi didn't seem as vindictive in her gossiping. John never caught wind of what they talked about, but what she said during the inquiry convinced John that, in the end, she meant no one any harm. She was in her later years, had few friends, and just wanted to feel she was a part of things. She didn't seem very sharp, either, but that was neither here nor there.

Since the men well out-numbered the ladies, John didn't have time to look them over as thoroughly. Hardly any of them seemed all that involved with the mystery of Gary's death. A few, however, either volunteered information regarding another strange matter that eventually dominated the mass interview.

When Sherlock and Lestrade made their entrance, the latter called for everyone's attention by raising his hand and his voice. "All right, everyone! I know you're exhausted and want to get out of here. I appreciate your patience at this time. If you would please sit tight for another moment, we'll ask you just a few more questions before we let you go."

John expected Sherlock to take control of matters right away. Intriguingly enough, Sherlock kept silent. His eyes were half-open and listless. Hands hid inside deep coat pockets, and the chin nested in the thick woolly scarf like a pigeon. The fact that Sherlock still had his warmer wear on was another small shock. John had long since removed his jacket and slung it over his arm. He sidestepped to his friend and whispered: "Aren't you warm in all that?"

"Nope," Sherlock whispered back, dull gaze still glued to the floor.

"You're not cold, are you?"

"I'm always cold. Be quiet."

John sighed through his nostrils. "Fine." He was just trying to be helpful.

"Pay attention to _them,_ not me," Sherlock added, as if he heard John's unspoken complaint.

Lestrade brought out his notepad and the scrap of paper he had referenced a few minutes ago with the names of the cleaners. "Now, just to make sure we've got this down properly, everyone who worked Saturday night on the last shift before lock-up please raise your hands."

Seven hands went up, most in a half-hearted manner. The extra hand included Mrs Bucket, whose wrinkled appendage quivered a little for the brief moment she held it up. The pale woman with the lapis necklace lifted her hand above her head even though it was even shakier. John wondered now if she was suffering from the early stages of Parkinson's. If so, his heart went out to her. He knew a few good soldiers who had been honourably discharged after being diagnosed with the disease. One of them even tried to convince and bribe John to cover for him, but there was no hiding the disease even if you tried.

"Good. And everyone who worked this morning?"

Six other hands reached upwards. Nadir removed his right hand from underneath his other arm, signalled with two fingers and a thumb, and then returned the hand to its place of concealment.

"Good. Glad to see no one tried to slip out before we were finished." Lestrade flipped a page over in the pad. "Now, am I correct in understanding, Mr Gabriel, that there is in fact no hired security in this establishment?"

Gabriel stepped toward the concession stand, giving John a better view of him. The staff director looked a bit more collected than before, but the crease across his forehead betrayed his deep and persistent displeasure with the affair. "That's right, although we do have an electronic security system."

"Could you or anyone else clarify why you don't have security guards?"

Gabriel's eyes wandered to the other staff members before answering. "It is my understanding that up until eight years ago, we did hire security guards. But after Mr Gary took over, certain arrangements were made that no longer required a human security presence."

The expository reply amounted to very little. Lestrade asked, "Do you know what those exact arrangements were?"

For a few long seconds, Gabriel contemplated his next words. He wanted to keep a lid on something. It was blatantly obvious now. John glanced at Sherlock. The detective, for some mysterious reason, kept looking down. In fact, his eyes were almost closed.

"Like I said, we have a top-of-the-line security system in place," Gabriel nervously repeated.

"Top-of-the-line or not, most theatres still hire security guards," pressed Lestrade. "Now tell us why _you _don't have one, or we'll have to bring you to the Yard for further questioning."

If one thing could be said about DI Lestrade, it was that he was tenacious about wrangling out information. That, among other things, made him invaluable as a police detective. John wouldn't shy away from giving him credit for that.

Lestrade placed more weight into his voice. "What is going on, Mr Gabriel? Why did Gary dismiss the security guards?"

After a prolonged, fearful pause, Gabriel took in a laborious breath and finally yielded. "There were reports of . . . unusual things . . . happening in the theatre. Particularly at night, when only the security guards were present."

"What kinds of things?" asked Lestrade, his silver eyebrows furrowed. "Were they ever resolved?"

"They varied from person to person, from what I heard." Gabriel began unconsciously tugging on his shirt collar again. His thick fingers kept searching for the top button, and failed for a long while. "Some people heard voices. Others heard strange noises. Machines, animal sounds, or things they couldn't even describe. And . . . there were reports of seeing _something_ roaming around. I don't remember what, but practically everyone working for security became convinced that the theatre was haunted."

"You can't be serious," John blurted out.

Gabriel leaned on the counter top to look past Lestrade and Sherlock, the former of whom looked at him, too. "Why wouldn't I be? And what's so unbelievable about it? I only didn't mention all this because I didn't want to hurt the theatre's reputation."

"I thought you said all theatres are haunted," John challenged, for once not inhibited by potential embarrassment in front of a crowd. Sherlock still said and did nothing, making John a little hot in the head. What important thing could be going on in Sherlock's brain right now that required him to be as still and mute as a damn statue?

"As part of the theatre tradition, they are," argued Gabriel, his voice rising in pitch, "but this is different." He looked back at Lestrade. "That's why we decided not to hire any more security guards. All of them refused to keep working here. They were half-frightened out of their minds!"

Lestrade shifted his weight from the right leg to the left and pursed his lips. He didn't look very impressed. "Everything has been normal since we've been here. How do you explain that?"

"Excuse me," interrupted a solemn, steady voice from across the room. All eyes turned, including John's, to Mrs Bucket in her chair. Even Sherlock looked up, though only with his eyes.

Mrs Bucket's veined hands were folded in her lap while she addressed Lestrade. "It might be better if I explained the entire situation to you. I've been here the longest, well before Gary became the manager. Would that be appropriate, Mr Gabriel?"

"Certainly," Gabriel acceded with a nod. He looked more than relieved to have the attention directed away from him.

Lestrade walked a little further into the room, his back to John and Sherlock. "All right, Mrs Bucket. Let's set the record straight. What is this 'ghost' business really about?"

Mrs Bucket lifted her head an inch. "There is one thing you must concede to if anything is to be accomplished." Her voice sat in the lower register, like that of a stern schoolmistress delivering a lesson to unruly students. "If you cannot concede, all further inquiry is pointless."

Lestrade puckered his mouth, then made a somewhat imperious cluck with his tongue. "I hope that's not a threat, ma'am."

John barely looked at Sherlock in time to see the detective roll his eyes into his lids.

"It's a simple reality." Mrs Bucket adjusted her position in her seat, pitch-black eyes dead set on Lestrade.

"Very well," Lestrade consigned, his shoulders drooping some more. "What is it?"

"That the ghost is real."

A groaning sigh escaped the DI's lips. John puckered his own to one side at this new development. He expected a similar display of frustration from Sherlock. When he turned to his friend, though, he saw Sherlock's eyes were more open. Not in surprise, but in attentiveness. He stared squarely at Mrs Bucket, probably rummaging his way through her life by dissecting each feature of her clothes, hair, face and posture.

"Really, Mrs Bucket," Lestrade broke in through John's observations of his flatmate, "you can't expect modern-day policemen to take your word, or anyone's word, that a ghost exists. Not in a murder investigation."

"I understand your scepticism, but it's true. It may be something science or forensics cannot explain, but that does not mean it doesn't exist."

"Well, I'm afraid police work _is_ limited to the provable and tangible," Lestrade retorted. John nodded a little. Sherlock could not have said it better himself. "I have to assume events are caused by human agents."

A stout man standing near Mrs Bucket piped up. He spoke with a mild French accent. "We are not saying the ghost is the cause of Gary's murder, sir. That is not the matter at hand."

"Then why bring it up?" barked Lestrade. He sounded like he was reaching the end of his rope.

"_You_ were the one who insisted on knowing why there are no security guards in this theatre. That is the reason."

The smallest of smirks flickered across Sherlock's face.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. "All right, all right. Let's move on, shall we? Now—"

"One moment, Lestrade." Sherlock, rousing himself from his meditative stupor, strode forward until he passed the DI and stood in the middle of the circle of staff members. His gaze was quickly met by Mrs Bucket's. "How long has this ghost been here?" he asked.

"It began to make itself known shortly after Mr Gary became the manager."

"So only eight years."

"Yes."

"Has the ghost made itself known to anyone else aside from the security guards?"

Mrs Bucket delayed for a second. "Some of us have heard a voice or seen a snip of a shadow that could not be explained by the presence of another person."

Sherlock locked his hands behind his back. "Have _you _heard or seen the ghost?"

Mrs Bucket shut her fluttering eyelids, then immediately opened them. "I have."

The entire room seemed to exhale in unison at this reply. The consulting detective scowled a little. "Where? When?"

"In the fifth box on the tier. The one closest to the stage on the left-hand side, if you are sitting in the stalls."

Sherlock mused on this for a moment, half-closing his eyes again as he thought. "What is your relationship with the ghost? You seem to have one, if you believe in it so implicitly."

For a fleeting second, Mrs Bucket gave away a hint of self-consciousness. She balled her hands but still trained her eyes on Sherlock. She'd probably hoped it wouldn't come to giving this amount of detail about herself. After a few hesitant seconds, though, she answered:

"I don't consider myself a superstitious person, but I admit I am willing to believe in the bizarre and miraculous if there is enough reason to. That was my mindset when I first heard the voice inside the box. I went to tidy it up one night before a performance. No one had bought it, so I was very surprised when, just as I entered, someone spoke right next to me, even though I was completely alone. It said, 'Your services will not be required tonight. I have already had this box prepared for me. Thank you for all your hard work, Mrs Bucket.'"

Sherlock lowered his chin toward her. "Those were its exact words?"

Mrs Bucket nodded stiffly. "I'll never forget that night or that voice for as long as I live. I made absolutely sure that no one had been outside the box or in the hallway when it happened. It left me quite shaken, so much so that I said nothing to Mr Gary or anyone else. I thought maybe it had been some inexplicable hallucination."

"But," Sherlock jumped in, "you received further confirmation later."

Mrs Gary nodded again, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I did. The next night, again when I went to prepare the box, the voice stopped me and said, 'I have made an arrangement with the manager that this box will be reserved for me for the rest of the season. I want you to know this so that you will not be startled in the future.'

"Again I checked, and there was no way anyone had been within range to say anything. Besides, I didn't know _anyone_ with a voice like this."

"Can you describe it? Man? Woman?" Sherlock's voice grew deeper, and the pace of his speech quickened – two signs that his interest was piqued.

"It was too androgynous for me to tell, but . . . it was so . . . _beautiful_." The last word was drawn out, timid yet full of reverence. "Gentle and resonant. All-encompassing. The kind of voice you would obey without question, no matter who it belonged to or what it ordered you to do."

John felt chills running all over his body. His muscles tingled and his skin shivered and crawled. He wanted to put his jacket back on and get out of there.

Sherlock broke eye contact with Mrs Bucket, who now looked drained from these questions. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, quietly but consciously inhaling and exhaling. Sherlock, in contrast, looked more energised, like he'd had his batteries recharged. He turned in a gradual circle to look at everyone in the room.

"Who else has encountered the ghost?"

Glances were exchanged. Eyes exhibited a reluctance to rise and address the detective's question. Before too long, however, Cecilia James lifted a hand. So did the Frenchman and a wild-haired hoary-headed fogey. Mimi Valerius also raised her hand, but Adelaide slapped it back down.

"You've never seen the ghost!" she chided, as if she were the more senior person of the pair.

"Yes, I have!" retorted Mimi, unexpectedly youthful in voice and enthusiasm. "I saw it poke its head out of the wings just the other night."

Adelaide pouted her pretty coral lips. "How do you know it wasn't someone working backstage?"

"Because you can _tell_ when it's a ghost." Mimi lifted her hands and faced the palms outward, apparently trying to recreate that moment in her mind. John wondered if she would start miming the incident, or start channelling the ghost. "You can feel its . . . _aura_."

"Will you just be quiet?" snapped a skinny man with a grimace like an angry garden gnome and rust-coloured hair poking out at wild angles from his potato-shaped skull. "Stop pretending you know anything about it. It's only pissing people off."

"At least I _believe_ it!" Mimi objected, not sounding all that upset about the harsh comment, despite the energy she funnelled into her voice. It was more of a declaration of conviction than a desperate plea for others to believe her.

"_Enough_," ordered Sherlock. The room went silent. When he was sure everyone had ceased their grating chatter, Sherlock whipped around to the red-haired man. John glanced at the name tag: Richard Firm. The doctor wondered for a few a couple of seconds if he used the nickname 'Dick'. He resisted laughing with a great deal of effort.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked Mr Firm. John made a serious, intense expression to get himself focused. He knew nicknames were the furthest thing from his friend's mind right now. "Have you ever heard or seen the ghost?"

"No, and I don't really buy into this superstitious nonsense," said the man in a biting tone. "But what I really can't stand is when people pretend they've witnessed something just to get attention. _That_ puts me off more than anything."

"I understand," said Sherlock, giving the man a respectful nod. He then turned to the man with bushy white hair sitting in the next seat to his right. "And you?"

"Giles Andrews, sir," said the cleaner in a Cockney accent. "For all the time I been here, I haven't had a cross word from management or anyone else regardin' how I arrange things. In the offices and such, I sometimes put things in a more proper order than they're left in – not too much to cause confusion. In fact I think I'm rather helpful. Then, about year ago, we get this huge antique vase put in the upstairs lobby, and I think it should have some flowers in it. What do you use a vase for, after all?"

Sherlock's engaged expression didn't flinch once. John inwardly cringed for him and fought back another laugh.

"So I do just that, and then, lo and behold, the next time I come in, the bloody thing is empty! Thinkin' it's one of the other staff, I put flowers in it again. Now, sir, you'd think that if it was one of the staff, and they disagreed about somethin' I was doing, they'd either take it up with management or tell me directly. Seems like the proper thing, right? Well, next time I'm back, the vase is empty again, _and_ there's a note addressed to me underneath it when I pick it up. I can't remember the exact wording, but in short, it told me I was an idiot and if I touched the vase again, I'd get me neck wrung."

Sherlock took a second to keep himself collected. "How do you know it was from the ghost?"

"Well, first off, it was written in red ink, like it was supposed to be blood. Second, it was signed 'TG', and none of us has the initials 'TG'. So they must have stood for 'theatre ghost'."

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock remarked, the hint of irony escaping only Giles' ears.

"Thank you, sir. I took the note to Mr Gary to see what he made of it. After a while of thinkin', he told me to forget the matter and leave the vase to someone else. So I did, and I never got me neck wrung. But after that, I always felt like someone was watching me, making sure I wouldn't piss them off again."

"I see." Sherlock moved over to the stout man standing near Mrs Bucket, named Remy Fosse. Fosse also looked ready and willing to share his story, now that other people had gone first.

"I came here a month after Mr Gary arrived, and like Mr Firm over there" – he gestured toward the red-head – "I didn't believe in the ghost at first. But during the production of _Woman in White_, cast members started approaching Mr Gary about costumes and props disappearing and reappearing in places where they shouldn't. I don't mean the ordinary places – things would show up in the catwalks, under seats, and even a piece of prop parchment that had been missing for weeks was eventually found in the trouser leg of the actor who needed it – _while he was on stage_. Naturally, I assumed it was the work of a prankster. But then the cast began accusing _us_ of it, so I thought to look into the matter.

"The costume manager and I decided to lock up everything in a small room, and we would take turns monitoring the room to make certain no one got in. This happened when the production was on break to fix problems with the show, so it did not interfere much with our respective schedules. We observed and took note of who passed by that room throughout the day. After a week, having made sure none of the locked-away props and clothes were missing, we set up a hidden camera inside the room to catch the criminal in the act. He and I even took bets on whether it was a cleaner or a costume person who was doing it."

Sherlock arched his eyebrows. "And the result?"

Fosse shuddered before continuing, the memory alone making him shudder. "First of all, we never got a glimpse of the person. The next day we checked the camera, but we found that something caused it to shut off. I don't think it was the battery, but I could be wrong. But then – _then_ – when I was walking out of the room with the camera in hand, someone _pushed_ me from behind. The costume manager didn't see who pushed me – his back was facing me and he was walking away after discovering what happened to the camera. We both went back in and tore the room apart looking for the person who shoved me, but no one was in there. I swear, nothing was left unturned. But the most embarrassing part was that several of the cast members who had not yet received their costumes for that day's rehearsal found us in that state and immediately presumed _we_ were the pranksters. Thankfully, Mr Gary was very understanding and only asked that we put the prankster-hunting business to rest."

Sherlock hummed. "Interesting."

"Could we get back to the _real_ issue here at some point?" interjected Lestrade.

Sherlock twisted around with a blank stare. "Which is?"

This response was enough to render Lestrade speechless for a moment, and to force him to grab his head to hold back the oncoming migraine. Sherlock took full advantage.

"Miss?" He leaned down toward Cecilia James, speaking in a low, relatively benign tone. "Could you tell me something of your encounter with the ghost?"

Cecilia glanced up at him. Her dry lips quivered a little before she pressed them together with what looked like painful force. Her nose whistled as she inhaled through slender nostrils. When she first started to speak, John had difficulty hearing her, and he had good ears and stood barely two meters away. She soon cleared her throat and raised her voice, but it still sounded like rustling bare branches.

"When I was a girl, my mum and I shared an interest in real-life ghost stories. We used to research about them together and try to figure out which ones were true, and which were hoaxes. My interest died down eventually, but my mum still keeps up with it. She's confined to her bed, now, but she insists on watching ghost-hunter shows and listening to anyone's stories about their supernatural experiences.

"I had only listened to the rumours about the theatre ghost, but I told her about what I knew. She got all excited about it and asked - really _begged _me - to look into it more. I didn't want to take it so seriously at first, but . . . the more we talked about it, the more curious I became, too. She convinced me to have my own encounter with it. So, once, when I was on the night shift, I stayed later than everyone else. Even Mr Gary."

Cecilia paused to swallow. Lestrade was no longer of a mind to interrupt or redirect the interrogation. John read in the face of everyone present, from Gabriel to Mrs Bucket to Firm, the unbeliever, that this was the first time anyone had heard this story. Sherlock's expression was all placidity, but his irises burned with electric heat. He wanted to know just as much as, if not more than, everyone else how this was going to end.

The ashen woman knotted her thin fingers together. "For a while, nothing happened. I tried calling out to the ghost, assuring it that I meant no harm, but it didn't answer. I decided to wait an hour before giving up. It was so quiet during that bit. It made me realise just how _big_ this theatre is. Even just the auditorium. I roamed around the halls for a while, and then looked in the auditorium. At some point I took a look in Box Five. I'd heard a little about Mrs Bucket's story with the ghost, except I didn't know how regularly she heard it. It was in there that things started happening."

John could see her courage faltering. Her hand kept tucking some hair behind her ear, even if none of it was touching her face. Then she pressed a knuckle against her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She took another deep breath through her nose.

"Was it the voice?" Sherlock asked. His voice was rock-steady, and it seemed to draw Cecilia out of her anxiety somewhat. She opened her eyes to answer him.

"Not at first. When I was up in the box, and looking over the auditorium . . . do you know the ghost light? The one on the stage we keep on when all the others are off? Well, it suddenly went out."

Gabriel whispered an incredulous, "What?" A few eyes turned toward him either in concurrence or to silence him. If Sherlock had heard him, he made no indication of it. Cecilia had his full attention.

"It was completely dark, then?"

"Yes. Then I heard . . . a banging . . . coming from backstage."

Sherlock crouched down in front of Cecilia, one hand on his knee and the other gripping the arm of her chair. "What kind of banging?"

Cecilia swallowed thickly. "Like . . . someone banging a metal bar against a big pipe. It was so sudden, so _loud_, that I jumped. It was a steady banging, kind of like . . . footsteps.

"I didn't want to think it was the ghost. I kept telling myself that someone from maintenance was fixing something in the wings, and he'd accidentally disconnected the ghost light without realising it. I went down to check on it."

"How were you able to see without any lights?"

"Oh, I had a torch with me. It seemed reasonable to assume I'd need it."

Sherlock graced her with a small smile. "That was good planning. What happened next?"

Cecilia pulled on the lapis pendant again, thinking. "It couldn't have taken me more than two minutes to get down to the wings, but when I got there the banging had stopped. I was on the side of the stage close to Box Five, and from there it had sounded like the noise came from the other wing. I went over to the ghost light to see what the matter was. The filament inside looked intact, and there was no disconnect around the base of the light holder. I thought the problem must have been at the other end of the power cord, so I started following it. That was when . . ."

Cecilia's eyes fluttered shut, and she seemed to almost tumble forward as her face fell into her hands. John thought for a moment she was going to faint. Sherlock might have been thinking the same, too, since his hand nearly shot out to catch her. But then, either seeing that she had steadied her nerves, or thinking better about laying a hand on her, he retracted. His fingers curled into a tight ball. He mounted his elbow on his knee and pressed the fist against his mouth.

Cecilia took another gulp of hair and pushed some wisps of hair out of her eyes. "That was when I heard the groans. God! They sounded like something from a horror movie, only worse. I didn't know if they were groans of pain or . . . _ugh_. I can't even think about it without feeling sick. It didn't even sound human.

"Just as the groans stopped, all these whispering voices came out of nowhere. Or maybe it was one voice. I don't know – all I can say is that whispers started flying around me. I couldn't hear any words. Just murmurs that moved around the space like flies. Sometimes they were above my head, or next to my ear, and they'd fly – really, _fly_ – out into the auditorium. I even started swatting at them! I didn't know what they were or what else to do. I tried talking to whoever or whatever it was I was facing, but it didn't help. The whispers kept diving at me, and then zipping off. It was a few minutes before those faded away. I waved my torch all over the place, and never saw anyone or anything.

"I was frightened stiff. I didn't think I could move again to look for the ghost light's plug, even when the voices stopped. The silence made it worse. I kept thinking something would suddenly jump out. Shadows seemed to start moving around." Cecilia gave a short sigh and shook her head. "I'd had enough. I went down the stairs on the stage into the stalls, going slowly so as not to trip on anything, even though I still had my torch."

Her eyes started to tear up. The shaking in her hands and even her head worsened. She shuddered to breathe. "Then . . . right behind me . . . there's this sudden, awful scream that rips right through me. It's a man's scream. Almost a roar. So angry and loud and _frightening_! I scream and run, thinking this was it. I even dropped my torch. I practically threw myself out the doors into the lobby and sprinted for the foyer. But when I tried to open the doors to the stairs, they wouldn't budge! They were locked, and I was sure I hadn't locked them yet. I nearly lost my mind right there and then. I heard a heavy, raspy panting coming towards me from the auditorium. I just bolted down the hallway. I couldn't see anything in the darkness. I was being chased by a voice – that was it. No real person. Just a . . ."

Cecilia paused to gasp. The tears began dripping onto her cheeks. Remy reached over with a wide, bear-like hand and lightly rested it on her shoulder. Sherlock didn't move in response to her distress, but his eyebrows rested lower above his eyes, and were slightly pulled together.

"I ran like hell down the hall," the poor woman continued after wiping her eyes, "and the panting voice kept close behind me. I knew no one could hear me, but I couldn't stop screaming. I spotted another stairwell up ahead that would at least let me find a way downstairs. But I never reached it. I must have been about a meter away from the door when a bright light filled my visions. It was white and blinding. My eyes actually hurt from seeing it, and seeing it so suddenly. I'm sure I went blind for a second, and I felt myself being tackled. I screamed again, but above it I could hear something else. Not panting. It was . . . the most _horrendous_ laugh I've ever heard. It was shrill and giddy . . . like the way a psychopath would laugh. At the same time, something squeezed around my neck. I couldn't scream anymore, and that awful laugh filled my ears until I passed out."

Taking another pause, Cecilia wiped away a few more tears. She closed her eyes and let out a long, hard breath. It was enough to let John break out of his trance. The story had mesmerised him with horror to the point that he forgot about everyone else in the room. His mind was filled with the images of that beautiful auditorium, draped in darkness and filled with sounds that lived in people's nightmares. Looking at other faces around him, he saw that Cecilia's account had a universal effect. Even Richard Firm's jaw hung open, and the hair on his head seemed to stand up more. Eyes were as wide as dinner plates. A few other listeners, such as Mrs Bucket and Remy, displayed deep sympathy for Cecilia as well as terror at her experience.

As for Meg, she freed herself from the story's spell about the same time John did. When he glanced at her, their eyes met. It sent an electric jolt through him, but not in a bad way. It was rather reassuring, comforting even, to know someone else had enough awareness to gauge their surroundings even after hearing such a riveting tale.

An instant understanding passed between them. Neither could believe what they heard, but neither could they shake off the effect it'd had on them. How could it be true? But then, why would Cecilia make up a story like that? She didn't seem the fanciful or attention-seeking type. If they were in fact misjudging her character, it was one hell of a performance on Cecilia's part.

No one had found the nerve yet to break the heavy silence, so Cecilia was able to finish her account without interruption. "When I came to, I was in my brother's car. He'd picked me up from outside the theatre after getting a call from me from my mobile. I don't remember doing calling him, but he said I'd been crying hysterically and had begged him to come get me, even though he lived outside of London and it was late. I must have blacked out at some point. Maybe I came to and then fainted again. He said I was lying senseless on the front steps, like I'd passed out after getting out of the building. I can't think how else I managed to escape."

Now that she'd finished, her shakes and weeping dissipated. The pain of recalling these events was unmistakable in those eyes, though. And now her distress and agony were shared by all who had heard.

_Well_, thought John, _with the possible exception of one_. He keenly examined Sherlock, albeit at a distance.

After waiting a minute for everything to sink in, Sherlock slowly rose to his feet. "Thank you for your candidness, Miss James."

Cecilia nodded meekly, barely meeting Sherlock's face with her eyes. "Thank you for listening, sir. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me."

Sherlock didn't respond to the self-deprecating comment. It was a full minute before he said anything. No one, not even Lestrade, attempted to disturb him.

When the minute passed, Sherlock turned on the balls of his feet to face Gabriel. "I have one more question."

Gabriel, who had at some point undone the top button of his shirt, redid it with sweaty, clumsy fingers. "Yes?"

"Who brought the chair back into Gary's office?"

"That was me," said Mrs Bucket behind him.

Sherlock's entire body turned 180 degrees together. "When? Who gave it to you?"

Mrs Bucket gave what sounded like a frustrated sigh. "I wish I could be more helpful, but I simply found it."

The detective bent down, hungry for the explanation. "Where?"

"In a closet in the hall where Gary's office is. I keep spare chairs and cushions in there for other offices and the boxes. I checked in there when Gabriel asked me to come and told me that it was missing."

"Was the chair part of a set?"

"I don't think so. I remember one time when I was in Gary's office, and I commented to him what a fine chair he had. He told me it was a lucky find – a precious antique. It sounded like the only one of its kind."

Sherlock straightened back into the posture of a rod. "Very well. Lestrade, I leave the rest to you."

Like in the alley earlier that morning, Sherlock excused himself without further warning. John had to struggle past several people, which on the upside gave him a better view of everyone's name tags.

It also gave Remy a chance to grab his sleeve and get his attention. "Are you with that man?" he asked John.

"Yes," said John, getting his arm free to put on his jacket.

"Who is he?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective."

"Oh." Remy leaned past John, catching one last glimpse of his friend. Then he looked up again. "Is he as odd as he looks?"

John wished he had a good defence, but none came to mind. So he simply replied, "Completely."

"Good." Remy gave him a half-cocked smile. "Maybe he can sort out this madness, after all."


	11. John's Story

I didn't realize until a few chapters ago that I have to renumber them now! Argh!

In case you're wondering if the thing mentioned below in John's narrative is true, check out the film "Saving Face". It's just heartbreaking.

* * *

Chapter 10: John's Story

Throwing on his jacket as he exited the Palace Theatre, John sucked in a stream of air. The temperature started to drop along with the sun, but it was still nice enough for John to keep his jacket unzipped. The full solar disc still hung above the London cityscape, though only at a thumb's width from where he stood. Must have been past four o'clock by now. It sounded like a good time to head back to Baker Street. He needed a steaming mug of Green Mint after this day – a nice cuppa to clear their heads.

But before that, John still needed a few facts about the case clarified. And some things about Sherlock's behaviour regarding the case. When they left Gary's office, Sherlock seemed quite bent on answering the matter of how their killers managed to walk through walls, or floors, to get to the sewers with Gary's body. Now here they were, standing on the curb facing the near-rush-hour traffic of the West End, apparently no closer to the truth. The whole business was becoming more and more shrouded in the superstitious paranoia of the staff. The worst part was that the cleaners' fears sounded quite justified. John had never heard such compelling accounts of ghost encounters. He wasn't ready to believe their cause to be supernatural, but he could buy that these poor people had, in fact, experienced the events they related. Each was extraordinary and terrifying, and yet so vivid and feasible that John could imagine himself in every scenario. When Remy mentioned how the 'ghost' had pushed him from behind, he almost fancied feeling a bit of pressure between his shoulder blades. And Cecilia James' story – John couldn't bear to recall any details lest he start shivering again in a cold sweat.

What really caught his attention about these accounts, though, was that no one had actually seen the ghost. That was what convinced him that these incidents had happened. It kept open the possibility that someone – someone _living_ – was behind them. Whoever was responsible must have been a talented trickster well-versed in the art of misdirection and illusion. But how? Why? That much John couldn't sort out.

Speaking of misdirection, he couldn't wait till they were back at the flat to ask Sherlock a question that, to him, was pertinent. He joined his friend at the edge of sidewalk, eyeing the busy street for a free cab.

"Uh, Sherlock? You do know you didn't ask them about the sewers, right?"

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "If they do know, which I doubt, Lestrade will get it from them. But I see now I'm dealing with an incompetent group of witnesses."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it? Just because they think it's a ghost—"

"It's not just that," Sherlock cut him off, shooting up his hand as he did. A gleaming black taxi swam out of the rushing current and came to a grinding halt in front of them. Sherlock jumped in and told the cabbie their address, then scooted as far as possible to make room for his companion. He felt compelled to wait a few extra seconds to fix the tailcoats under his rear before continuing.

Leaning his elbow on the window's ledge, Sherlock faced John in a crooked posture. It didn't take a genius to see the vexation that quite literally was bending out of shape. "They've all let the fever of their theatrical superstitions blind them to a very obvious connection. Whoever is really behind the incidents is connected to Gary. And if they, the cleaners, cannot understand how a person can sneak through the theatre without being seen, either they haven't investigated as thoroughly as they claim, or the culprit is being covered by them or, until recently, the management."

"Are you so sure Gary is directly involved?" John took one last glance at the theatre as the cab pulled away. The building's Victorian façade and the pink, white and blue _Priscilla_ marquee were branded onto his corneas for the rest of the day.

"Don't you remember _anything_ they said?" A measure of force was added to Sherlock's already granite tone. "Mrs Bucket claimed that the ghost had 'made an arrangement with the manager' to secure Box Five for itself. When she, Andrews and Fosse went to Gary about their respective encounters, he told them to forget about it. The most persuasive fact, of course, is that the ghost appeared the same time Gary became the manager."

A momentary silence passed. John stared out his window. His brain filed the facts and unanswered questions in his now overcrowding memory vault. He didn't fully register the people zipping across his field of vision as the cab turned north toward their street. They came and went as blurs of colour, none nearly as vibrant as the crimson curtains, golden lamps or magenta lettering on the Palace Theatre. Here and there he picked out important places: a Tesco Express that reminded him of the fresh groceries awaiting them at home. A Barclay's that made him mindful to check his balance some time tonight or tomorrow, and possibly bring up the use of the Tube instead of cabs once in a while. A women's garment store whose name he missed, but which made him wonder when Sarah's birthday was. They'd broken up, yes, but they still saw each other at the surgery, and he wanted to maintain at least one friendship outside of Sherlock just to keep balanced. Too bad he couldn't remember whether Sarah's birthday was this coming week or the week after. He had no idea, even now, what exactly to get her.

Two minutes passed to attend to these mundane matters. Important, but certainly mundane in Sherlock's opinion. And John had to agree that two minutes seemed enough time to dwell on the 'dull' things before returning to the case.

"But," he eventually inquired, "how are the ghost's antics connected to Gary? What was their purpose? To scare people?"

Sherlock gripped the yellow handle in front of him. "There doesn't seem to be any other motive. But what would Gary gain from scaring his staff? Or maybe . . ." He let out a tight sigh between his teeth. He stared out the front window of the cab, lips still parted as his brain raced. His right hand grasped the same-sided knee, and he sat forward in his seat as if considering whether or not to take a leap through the glass that separated them from the cabby.

John, noting Sherlock's tense stance, played a short, hypothetical clip in his mind of a consulting detective bounding forward like a kangaroo, and glass flying all over the place. What scared John was that, while that would never actually happen, his friend had an uncanny habit of executing reckless and somewhat insane feats that didn't stray far from John's fantastical imaginings. If he needed to, Sherlock would have no problem throwing himself out of a car or through a window.

Did he feel an impulse to do that now? He looked as if he needed to go somewhere, or do something, but he didn't know what yet. He started to drum his fingers on his knee, and the fingers around the yellow handle flexed hungrily. Sherlock never liked ending a day without a firm footing on the mystery at hand. He preferred to stay on the case when the crime was this fresh, but they had no more leads until Lestrade finished his inquires and had his unit investigate the theatre. Uncertainty, which was how it looked to John, was a rather singular emotion to see in Sherlock. Normally he appeared sure-footed about which step to take to find out what he needed to know. Today's proceedings had in fact followed that pattern until now. For the moment, they'd hit a brick wall.

In complete opposition, John argued it was better to take a breather at home and give the case a lie before picking up all the tangled threads again. And God knew they were tangled. First was Gary's body in the alley, placed there by two people strong enough to carry him a fair distance through the sewers. Then there was Mrs Lyla Gary, the widow, who knew next to nothing about her husband's past and just as much about his current job. There was the mysterious Malaika Qadir, too, who may or may not have been having an affair with Gary, but who was at least the recipient of his protection and patronage. Then there was the chair – who first took it? Someone on the staff in collusion with the killers? Mrs Bucket, even? No, she probably wouldn't admit to having even touched it and draw attention to herself. But how did it get back to the closet without anyone noticing? And now there was this ghost and the cleaners it tormented. Where did murderers or enemies even enter the picture?

Quite suddenly, a memory popped into his head. John visualised Gary's office again, zooming in on the wall above his eyelevel. Photographs of Gary with several people in fancy dress, and the corresponding awards he won at each ceremony, recorded for posterity. The neurons in John's brain lit up like sparklers. He bounced in his seat slightly as he turned toward his companion.

"Sherlock? How competitive would you say theatres are?"

"I already considered that," Sherlock muttered, still staring ahead. "The problem with that theory is that most of the theatres in the West End are owned by the same company. Unless there was a serious rivalry going on between two particular individuals, I doubt theatres would have a reason to eliminate one another when they receive funds from the same corporate hand."

"But Gary did unusually well as a manager. Maybe he did make some enemies. Maybe he received a salary increase or something as reward for his achievements. And if it's rivals, they could have bribed one or a few cleaners to take care of the chair and cover up the murder. Or, maybe it's someone with a grudge against Gary."

"Possible." The scowl that started to creep across Sherlock's brow suggested he still didn't like that theory. Petty crimes of jealousy or revenge had no finesse to them, unless the mind involved was abnormally cunning. "But the way Gary was found doesn't suggest a competitor. Remember, the killers wanted to direct our attention away from the theatre, not the victim's identity. We would have found out who Gary was even if I didn't have a mobile phone with Internet access. Simply making it look like a mugging would not have concealed his identity. It's the _theatre_ that's the key. Why was it so important?"

John took a beat to think of an answer. "The ghost?"

Sherlock turned toward him, his eyes slightly wider. "That's my feeling, too. But I can't think how."

"Maybe the person pretending to be the ghost killed Gary," John suggested.

Sherlock hissed another exasperated sigh. "We don't even know who that is yet, or what their motive could be. It's just speculation. I need _facts_!"

In a motion that startled John, Sherlock thrust himself backwards into his seat by pushing his weight against the yellow handle. Not for the first time, John felt he was sitting next to an overgrown kid who wanted to throw a tantrum. He wondered seriously for a second if he should get Sherlock a pacifier to calm him down.

"There's something else, too," Sherlock added.

"What's that?"

Sherlock craned his neck toward John. "The fact that they didn't place the body in the sewer."

So they were back to that again. That _was_ curious. John unconsciously thumbed the hem of his jacket and one of its snaps, thinking. "I remember you mentioning that. Is that really so strange?"

"I can't see what the obstacle would have been. There was ample opportunity. All the way from the Palace Theatre to Stacey Street – they could have dropped him anywhere. What was the problem?"

John let go of his jacket and wiped his slightly sweaty hands on his jeans. He didn't have any theories to explain that, which meant Sherlock would probably be pacing up and down the flat tonight rooting for a reason. Or, worse, he'd be scratching away at the violin. Oh, God.

"A night-in might help," John offered in a modest tone, expecting Sherlock to either lash out or give nothing but a dismissive grunt. "Let's let our brains rest a bit before we continue, 'kay?"

"I don't want to rest," Sherlock snapped.

"But you need to."

"What I need is more data."

John nearly threw up his hands. "Then why did we leave the theatre?"

Sherlock's body relaxed a little at the question. He kept quiet because he knew the answer, John knew it, and he knew John knew he knew it.

"You see?" John made a small, chiding smirk. "Even your instincts are arguing against you right now."

The detective still didn't say anything, but his eyes, which glared at John askance, snarled _Shut up_. It didn't matter. John couldn't wipe the smile off his face for a few minutes.

"What next, then? Tomorrow, I mean." _As in 'not tonight'_, he mentally appended.

In the vein of the many restless habits Sherlock exhibited, he tugged and twisted the cuff of his left sleeve without looking at it. "We need the address of Gary's second flat – we'll go to New Scotland Yard for that. That should give us insight into what he was doing in his spare time away from his wife. I also need to know more about Malaika. She knows more than she's telling. I need a better sense of her relationship with Gary. She might have known things about him no one else did. Were they having an affair? Were they involved in illegal activities and needed a cover? Even if she's an innocent, it's one more factor we need to excavate."

John went silent again as he listened. A visceral sensation attacked his insides, like a fist had embedded itself in his lower gut and was starting to twist his lower intestine. Dark memories floated back to the troubled surface of his mind. Well, the one memory. Why it punctured him more deeply than the countless flashes of gunned-down friends and chest-crushing explosions that kept ringing in his ears a long time afterwards, he could only venture a guess.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock's perturbed voice broke in.

When John's awareness of reality returned, he found his vision fixed on the floor of the cab near the toe of his right shoe. He immediately directed his eyes to Sherlock's face. His friend was scowling at him in a quizzical fashion. He had no clue what was going through John's head.

John winced at the question. He could remember with excruciating clarity their argument earlier in the day revolving around Malaika and her attire. Further debate wouldn't achieve much, but deep down he _did_ want to talk about it. If he said 'no' right now, Sherlock would not pursue it. His flatmate had no interest in some buried personal issue of his, despite his otherwise nosy disposition. Maybe, for the sake of the case and their oftentimes strained friendship, he ought to let it go.

"No," he said with more weariness than he meant to let through. He wondered if Sherlock had caught him in the lie as those polar icecaps for eyes hovered on him for a few doubtful seconds. John needlessly held his breath.

Sherlock's eyes minutely shifted back and forth, still trying to read John's expression. He held the gaze for an inexplicably prolonged second before turning forward again. John heard some horns honking through their renewed silence. The traffic outside was becoming clogged like a cholesterol-coated artery, with automobiles instead of blood cells fighting to reaching their respective destinations. Their cab could proceed only at a crawl with the intermittent abrupt stop to avoid rear-ending the double-decker bus in front of them.

The screeching wheels, rumbling engines and blaring horns made the lack of conversation within the cab all the more deafening. John stared out the window to search for something to say. The wall of the gridlock didn't offer much in the way of suggestions.

"Maybe we should have walked," he mumbled to no one.

There was no verbal response, which made John's stomach sink. If he'd been looking at Sherlock, though, he would have seen the detective's eyes flit toward him a few times for the rest of the ride.

Things tried to return to business as usual when, at last, the cab pulled up to their address. Sherlock hopped out without a word, leaving John with the fare. Again. John caged the surge of heat threatening to burst out of his mouth by an intake of a lungful of air, closing his eyes as he did. His fingers somehow found the will to dig out his bank card and hand it to the cabbie, although they danced an anxious jig on his thigh while he waited for plastic to slide through the reader that would suck another seventy quid out of his account. He released the air that grew hot in his chest, taking a smidge of his vexation with it. Maybe it was disproportionate financial anxiety talking, but John needed to find some steadier position than filling in for sick or out-of-town doctors, even just for his own peace of mind. It pained his pride a touch that Sherlock was always willing to split whatever monetary reward they were given for cases. That wasn't what bothered him, though. This might have been Sherlock's 'job', but John devoted a lot of his time to the work as well.

But John was still a doctor. That was _his_ profession. He didn't really care so much about being paid well, but more about putting his talents to proper use. There were practical reasons for his anxiety, too. Sherlock didn't receive cases with regularity, and he didn't even always receive payment for his trouble. In fact, depending on the circumstances, Sherlock would flat-out refuse any reward. He wouldn't even accept a stipend from the Yard, which baffled both John and Lestrade. So when Sherlock did take the occasional four-figure check from a posh client, even five thousand quid took two bachelors only so far, particularly in his economy. For John to have his own job – to get that biweekly pay check, however big or small – would be one less thing to make his hair turn prematurely grey.

John groaned mutedly while he stepped out of the cab, struggling to slip the card back into the slim pocket of the wallet. What he needed was a private practice. To have one would be brilliant. It'd let him work out his own hours and have more control over when and where he met patients, and how to arrange his schedule so that he could still be of use to Sherlock when needed. But to get to that place without first holding a full-time job at a hospital could be a nightmare. It wasn't impossible, as far as he knew, but the world of medicine in this day and age operated as a corporation-driven market. He hated it, and he tried to stay on the fringe of it by going into military service. People were rewarded with recognition and standing, too, but it was less about ego and more about the unit. After all, how well or badly one functioned with other members of his unit often determined the outcome of life-or-death scenarios. It tended to put matters in perspective.

His mind took a quick trip back to Afghanistan again as he trudged up the narrow green-carpeted stairs. He barely acknowledged the muffled whistle of a boiling kettle down the hall that indicated Mrs Hudson's presence and reminded him of how badly he needed a cuppa this very second. His hand automatically grabbed the railing while, in his head, he felt the long cool barrel of a sniper rifle as he positioned it for target practice, and later for a field mission to cover his fellow soldiers. Its firmness under his hand as it slid along the railing then brought him to reminisce on the numerous legs and arms he had to mend for injured soldiers and Afghan villagers. One of the villages they went to had been bombed by the enemy not 24 hours earlier. Many were dead, and those who lived had sustained horrendous damage. A young woman managed to retain consciousness and keep the children in her care calm while her splintered fibula poked out of her pine-coloured skin. As he set the bone back in place, bandaged it and gave her what small ration of morphine he could to alleviate her unspoken agony, he inquired about her children and where her husband was. After some initial confusion, she explained that she was not the children's mother. She was their eldest sister, and their parents had died of illness over a year ago. She then told him she was fourteen years old, which John couldn't believe for quite a while. The wrinkles from working in the sun all day, the scratched up and callous hands, and the hard, weathered expressions she made throughout treatment made her look so much older.

She and other people like her whom John met regarded the causalities of the war as equally painful but unavoidable as the more ordinary tragedies of life. But there were some travesties John couldn't accept, neither in wartime nor peacetime. And so he came round full circle to that incident which he had spent the last fifteen minutes trying so hard not to dwell on. When he realised his futile roundabout, he had arrived on the landing of their shared rooms, the door standing open for him. The first thing that caught his attention was Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, back to him, absent-mindedly removing his coat. As soon as John's foot crossed the threshold, Sherlock turned around and regarded him with an oddly vexed stare. The corners of his mouth pulled downward like anchors. He appeared to be fed up with this extended silence.

"What?" John asked, feeling his heart start to race.

Sherlock worked off the scarf with rough movements. "Mrs Hudson took my skull again."

John clamped his teeth together, then released his jaw before speaking. "Is that all?"

Sherlock marched into the kitchen without answering, supposedly to hang up his clothes. It was another one of those moments when John considered the repercussions of giving his flatmate a good kick in the seat of his trousers.

"I thought you'd had enough for today," Sherlock called from the kitchen. His voice was accompanied by the unsettling clang of porcelain, glass and metal. "I was going to take the skull into my room for a private chat. I need to think some more on this mystery, and I think best out loud."

John rounded the corner into the kitchen and sloughed his coat while he watched Sherlock opening and slamming cabinet doors. "So, now you're ditching me for your skull?"

"Obviously not. If there's one thing Mrs Hudson won't brook, it's interrupting her Sunday afternoon tea. I won't be able to talk to her for at least an hour."

"No locking yourself in your room to talk to your _other_ friend, then."

"Exactly."

John flinched as another emphatic slam assaulted his ears. "Sherlock, what in God's name are you looking for that you need to make such a ruckus?"

"What does it look like?" Sherlock grunted roughly and ruffled his thick hair with one hand. "Where'd you put the tea?"

The doctor had been expecting a hundred other possible words instead of 'tea' at the end of Sherlock's sentence. Vials. Eye dropper. Microscope. Jar of eyeballs. Anything but tea. A transient feeling of lightness filled him like helium. "You're going to make me tea?" John warily asked. A memory of Sherlock making coffee in Dartmoor, and the results of it, blinked through his mind. Not helpful.

"I can't if you don't tell me where the bags are," Sherlock shot back.

It took John several minutes to find the tea bags himself. They turned out to be hidden behind a row of bottled chemicals of specious origins. Sherlock must have stored them there without realising he was blocking the boxes. John gave Sherlock another apprehensive look as he handed him the tin box with the Green Mint.

"Do I dare ask why?" This could have been another pretext to test something on him, although the timing would have been odd.

Sherlock answered with a cross scowl. "You planned to have some, anyway."

John raised his eyebrows. "You picked up on that?"

"I've lived with you long enough to know your habits." Sherlock talked and filled the kettle with water at the same time, looking a bit out of his element as he did. Nevertheless, he managed to put the kettle on and light the stove without incident. "You were tense the entire ride home, too. Clearly something is troubling you and we cannot get anything accomplished if you insist on remaining upset. Go sit down. I can handle it."

There seemed no point in making an argument out of it. John obediently took his seat in the overstuffed chair he favoured, complete with the Union Jack pillow. He was ready to treat this role reversal, bizarre as it was, as a God-given blessing, even if deep down Sherlock had purely impersonal reasons for making tea for him. For now, it didn't make a difference.

John approached the brink of sleep to the soothing hum of traffic on Baker Street when the kettle shrilled, and then again when Sherlock suddenly appeared with a cuppa in hand. He looked up and saw Sherlock's face warped in an expression of mild annoyance.

"I didn't mean to cause you trouble," John said, still taking the steaming mug and bringing near his face. The heat and sharp minty aroma woke him up.

"You can make up for it by telling me what the problem is." Sherlock plopped into the opposite chair and set his mug on the small table next to him. He then pulled up his legs and folded them underneath him. The pose, which looked uncomfortable in John's opinion, caused his knees to stick up above the arms of the chair. They resembled the wings of a black butterfly. Sherlock dug his elbows into the inside nooks of his knees and knitted his fingers together. John shoved his lips towards his nose. Regardless how often he'd made note of it to Sherlock, the man didn't even bother to take off his shoes. Did he _want_ to get shoeprints all over the upholstery? Or was it another one of those trivial things that didn't warrant the great detective's attention?

"John, stop staring at my shoes. Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, yes," John said with a sigh. He encircled his fingers around the warm mug. "I don't think you'll find it particularly relevant to the case."

"If it's bothering you to the point that we cannot speak to each other, it's relevant." Sherlock cradled his chin between his conjoined thumbs and the knuckles of his forefingers.

"Because it's an obstacle to the case?"

"In a way, yes."

"And that's it?"

Sherlock blinked, and his lips parted as if some retort were on the tip of his tongue. His expression shifted from annoyance to . . . well, not exactly offense. For as long as John had known him, Sherlock preferred not to devote energy to caring about remarks that criticised his single-minded and even cold demeanour. Some things were worth the pain of explaining, like how he could identify an insurance salesman by his shoes and fingers. Other things, like why he chose to look at a dead body and think only of the circumstances that brought the body there, not whether the victim had a family or how tragic it was that he died so young, required far too lengthy a lecture. Few people were quick enough to even keep up with his lines of logic. Better to leave his reasons to their imaginations. They had no effect on whether he found the guilty criminals.

So Sherlock did not give any defence against John's implications. Instead he drew his hands apart and rested them on the armrests, gently clawing the leather. His face relaxed as he stared at John and mused. Even his eyes were only half-open. His mouth alone remained tense, lips slightly pressed. Long fingers suddenly released the chair, and his arms swooped underneath his knees and hugged them. Sherlock stretched his head and neck forward and balanced his chin between the bony peaks. His eyes never left John, who for his part stared back in curiosity. He hated these moments when Sherlock's face was so utterly inscrutable, blank yet fully at attention to what he observed. John still couldn't penetrate this mask of his. He would gain insight only when Sherlock decided to give it to him. That made things all the more infuriating.

"It's about Malaika, isn't it?" Sherlock said in a low voice.

Sensing himself backing into a corner, John took a sip of tea before mindfully putting it on the floor by his foot. "Yeah, it is."

Sherlock squinted. "Why? Do your prejudices really run that deep? You're not the bigoted type, John. So she chooses to wear a veil and headdress and all the trimmings of her previous Muslim identity despite her newly adopted Christian beliefs. You've never professed a fanaticism for any faith in the past. What then do you find particularly hateful about this? The apparent hypocrisy? It's strange, even to me, but not offensive. Would most people find it so?"

"I imagine there are plenty of people of _both_ faiths who would have a few strong words to say about it," said John.

"That's because they are defensive about their religious practices." Sherlock started drumming his fingers on the sides of his calves. "Is that how you feel? I honestly didn't expect it."

John had Sherlock's full attention. Even if he wanted to resolve this merely to continue with the case without further speed bumps, Sherlock was allocating a good amount of time and brain power to this. He was actually interested. John couldn't explain it away with purely case-orientated reasons. Sherlock must have understood that he'd tapped into an unexplored area of John's life. He'd never asked about his experiences in Afghanistan, and why should he? He had issues of his own to worry about, and he never shared them with John, either. Before now, they mutually agreed, without words, that knowing each other's past experiences wasn't necessary. They'd barely known each other a whole day before John decided Sherlock Holmes was his friend, and that he was worth killing for to save his life.

All at once, the hairs on John's neck and arms stood up. He could hear and see Mrs Gary talking about her husband. How little she knew of him. How it didn't seem to matter at the time that she know his past, even if he had done or witnessed terrible things.

He curled his fingers but kept them resting in his lap. "You're right. I'm not religious. To be honest, I don't have much of a problem with Muslims in principle. For most of them, it's about being faithful and humble to God, even to the point of praying five times a day and wearing certain clothes in accordance with the Qur'an. That's not what bothers me."

Sherlock straightened and leaned back into the chair. "What, then?" he asked calmly.

The sounds of the battlefield increased in volume in John's ears, but he fought against them. He slowly inhaled, letting the breath inflate him down to his fingers, which he now unfurled. "I know that in every religion, however well-intentioned, has its groups of fanatics who use it to abuse others, and to establish and maintain their status of power. Those are the sort of people my unit and I were fighting in Afghanistan."

Any sounds coming from the city no longer reached their ears. Sherlock's tea remained untouched, and both his and John's grew steadily cold as one man listened to the other's story without distraction. Sherlock continued bracing his knees and altering his position. Sometimes he leaned into the chair for the sake of his back. For the rest of the time, he pitched himself forward and rested either his lips or his chin on his knees. A few times he looked off to the left with just his eyes, when he required a moment of thought while staring into space. After a handful of seconds, though, his gaze would move back to John.

John rubbed his eyes before picking up where he left off. "We . . . my unit and I were sometimes assigned to search and aid people in villages that had been used or attacked by the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. It wasn't just casualties of war we encountered. There was disease and hunger. But the overall trauma of living in a place like that, and the way it affected how people thought and acted, was what disturbed me most of all.

"I often helped the local doctors treat people with medicine we imported from home or received from our allies. As you can imagine, I saw a lot of bad injuries. Some patients died before I could properly treat them, and some even after treatment. I'll admit I can't remember every single person I ever had – they were just too many. But I can remember some, and usually for a damn good reason. And there was this one woman . . . this one person who made me really think about the people we were fighting against.

"She and her children lived in a village that intelligence told us harboured members of the Taliban. We managed to get in there and find them, and one of the guys were caught was her husband. Sometime later, when we were still there, she came to us – the local doctor and me – and told us her son was sick. It didn't turn out to be very serious – stomach flu, I think. I got to know her a bit and was surprised when I learned who were husband was. I thought for sure she'd hate us, but she didn't act like it. Then again, I didn't feel sure about that. She always wore a scarf across her face, covering everything except her eyes.

"After we took care of her son, she thanked me generously. She then asked how good I was at surgery. I told her I had the essential experience to perform invasive surgery in emergency situations. She said that that wasn't what she meant. Then she . . . took off the veil."

By the time he reached this part of the narrative, John felt like he had swallowed a rock, and it was stuck partway down his oesophagus. He needed a break. Sherlock kept still and quiet as John sipped his tea. The doctor frowned at the temperature of his drink, but he didn't want to get up to warm it. He had to finish the story before doing anything else, and before he lost Sherlock's interest.

John's fingers barely left the somewhat assuring hardness and smooth texture of the mug when he resumed. "She wanted me to . . . perform surgery on her face. It'd been severely disfigured by acid. Barely left her looking human. She didn't take off the veil even around her children, let alone her neighbours or strangers. You want to know how it happened? Her husband demanded, as per instruction from the Taliban, that she start wearing the full veil. She resisted, arguing that she already adhered to the tradition dictated by the Qur'an by covering the rest of her body, including her neck and head. So he . . . he dumped a . . . bottle of acid . . . on her face . . . while she was asleep.

"I told her I wasn't qualified to perform cosmetic surgery. I had no idea if there were any doctors in the area who could help her. I did hear of a surgeon, at some point, who lived a hundred miles north of us, and I mentioned him to the woman and tried to work something out, but . . . I think it came to nothing. My unit was reassigned in a short time, and I lost touch with both her and the surgeon."

John's eyes had been jumping all around the room until now, not wanting to know Sherlock's reactions to what he said. Reluctantly he let his eyes meet his friend's face. Sherlock sat completely still, eyes more open than before. Not even his fingers were moving.

"Sometimes I wish I'd done more to help her. I know I shouldn't beat myself up about it. There's no point dwelling on something I can't change. But, still . . . does that ever happen to you?"

Sherlock diverted his eyes downward when John looked at him for an answer. He folded his lips inward. "Now and then."

John almost smiled. He felt a weight lifting from his chest. "So, that's all there is. I just . . . have a hard time accepting the existence of a belief system that . . . insists on making a certain group of people feel inferior to everyone else, and then . . . punishes them in such a monstrous way when they take a stand for their dignity." He sniffed and picked up his mug again. "I promise I won't let it get in the way of what we have to do."

Sherlock lifted himself out of his seat by the armrests and unfolded his stork-like legs. He shot out a quick, relieved sigh while shaking them out. "Okay."

John glimpsed over the rim of his mug, from which he'd considered taking another sip. "You do believe me, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, somewhat surprised. He chose not to clarify which part he believed. That made John finally smile.

"Thank you." John's spirits lifted a little more at the passing of this dreary mood he got them in. He glanced into the mug, and his smile turned into a smirk. "And thank you for the tea. I can't believe you actually know how to make it yourself."

An incredulous scoff came out of Sherlock as he threw up his hands at the outrageous presumption. John held the cold mug to his chest and laughed.


	12. The Second Residence

Hope I didn't scare away everyone with the - umm - subject matter of the last chapter. But thank you Pilikia18 and maybeitsmaybelline for your reviews. :) Revisions still underway.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, except for some characters. And the plot. I guess.

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Chapter 11: The Second Residence

Throughout the evening after Sherlock and John returned to the flat, the sky fell to an invading army of black storm clouds. They ripped open shortly after midnight and continued alternating between a misty drizzle and windblown sheets of needle-like drops. For about an hour the following morning, John entertained the hope that Sherlock would take a rain check on any further investigations for the day. It would give them both a chance to take it easy before continuing with the mystery. It was a mad, foolish hope. But at least if anyone was going to dash his hopes, it was Lestrade.

Before the blurred lights of the police car started blinking wetly through the be-dewed window and caught John's attention as he came out of the kitchen, he spent his time after breakfast attempting to feed Sherlock. As expected, his friend had asked for nothing but tea and attempted to spend the whole morning searching the Web for various pieces of information, none of which John was permitted to view at the time. John was less concerned about knowing what Sherlock was looking up and more about what he was putting in his stomach. After an hour of coaxing, lecturing and begging, John managed to force his flatmate to sit at the table and eat half a piece of toast with a smudge of marmalade.

"Take your one-a-day, too," John reminded him, dropping a pale-orange pill the size of a thimble next to Sherlock's plate. "I'm not looking away until I see you swallow it."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table and engaged the vitamin caplet in a staring contest. How you could even have a staring contest with something that had no eyes, John couldn't figure, but somehow Sherlock pulled it off. He looked as if he expected the lifeless pill to lunge at him for no reason.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just swallow the damn thing!"

With all the caution of someone deactivating a bomb, Sherlock picked up the vitamin between his forefinger and thumb, careful not to squeeze it too hard, even though there was no reason for concern. It wasn't a gel pill or a capsule that might break open. Sherlock held it up at his eyelevel, turning it over in the dreary light from the cloud-clotted sky. Raindrop shadows danced across the tangerine-coloured caplet, as well as Sherlock's large, glacial hand. Metallic eyes studied the pill under heavy, hooded lids.

John sucked in a breath and gave Sherlock till the count of five before he grabbed the vitamin and forced it down his throat. He managed to reach four-and-a-half when Sherlock finally brought it to his lips, albeit so very slowly.

"Is this some kind of test?" He might have been over analysing things, but John considered whether his friend was purposefully recalling to his mind the case with the cabbie and the two pills. If he was, Sherlock was going to get his if he didn't stop.

John used the back of his hand to mop up the first drops of sweat on his forehead as Sherlock shoved the vitamin halfway into his mouth, and then sucked it the rest of the way in. He swallowed, looked up at John and gave a closed smile.

"Nice try," John said flatly. "Mouth check. Open up."

Sherlock scowled as if he didn't understand.

"Open your mouth before I do it for you. Don't make me use the tongue depressor."

The detective rolled his eyes and opened up. His mouth looked vacant of all ingested items. John kept his face relaxed as he lightly gripped Sherlock's jaw with his right hand. At the same time, he slowly raised the left one which wielded the spoon for his tea. He let one second slide before tightening his grasp on the jaw and digging the spoon under Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock cried and gagged in surprise.

"Aha!" John fished out the vitamin hiding under the saliva-slicked muscle and released Sherlock from his steely grip. Sherlock coughed and pressed his sleeve against his mouth.

"Are you _trying _to make me choke?"

"It wouldn't be an issue if you just cooperated," John retorted, setting the moist, partly-disintegrated vitamin on Sherlock's unused napkin. "It's flu season, and this is the thing that will keep you working on cases and not getting laid up for sickness."

"I don't need pills for that," Sherlock snarled. He picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, causing the pill to roll over and bounce once on the wooden tabletop. He muttered "I think I'm bleeding" under his breath.

"If you do get sick, don't say I didn't try to prevent it. And don't expect me to put up with any more of your complaints and protests." While he didn't believe the threat in the second sentence, John felt compelled to say it anyway. He needed to try to make Sherlock believe he wasn't going to put up with anymore of his childishness. In the end, though, John always somehow found the patience and resilience to do just that. He needed to smack himself upside the head sometimes.

After some moping and cleaning up, Sherlock returned to his dent in the sofa, only he sitting up with the computer on his folded legs. John washed up some of their dishes in the kitchen, leaving the rest for Mrs Hudson when she had time. When he returned and saw the coloured lights outside, he cleared his throat to alert Sherlock. The detective didn't spare John or the lights a glance. Before John could begin explaining the purpose of the noises he just made, a loud triad of knocks at the door spoke for him.

"It's open," called Sherlock, eyes remaining glued to the screen.

The door swung inward to reveal a damp police inspector. Lestrade brushed his silver hair with the flat of his hand a few times, which sent drops flying all over the hall. Even though he stood more than a metre away, John by instinct flinched and blinked.

"We found Gary's second flat," Lestrade announced.

"Goooood," Sherlock drawled. He punched the keys on the laptop even harder.

Lestrade nodded tentatively. His hands were locked behind his back, which had become a frequent stance of choice for when Lestrade felt antsy and expected some immediate action. When none came from either Sherlock or John, the latter waiting for a cue from the former, Lestrade started rocking on his feet. "So let's go."

"In a minute," mumbled Sherlock. "We'll follow you shortly."

"_Now_."

The sudden sharpness in Lestrade's voice caused both John and Sherlock to shoot him stunned looks. John felt his insides crunch. Sherlock was probably going to throw another tantrum over Lestrade's forceful order. When the detective held his seat on the couch – no sudden bounds or burning glares in the inspector's direction – John breathed the quietest sigh of relief.

"I'm not even _dressed_," Sherlock pointed out, spreading his arms as he did to make his point. He was still sporting a plum-coloured silk dressing gown. Under it he wore over a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt. The shirt featured the face of a black woman with an afro and the name 'Gloria Scott', printed in delicate script font. The first time John saw Sherlock wearing it, Sherlock counteracted his gawking by explaining how a friend at uni lent it to him, and how he quickly realised it originally belonged to the boy's father as a fan souvenir rather than as a casual garment. Indirectly, the shirt also led to Sherlock's involvement in a decades-old blackmail case, which he solved. In light of the connection and the lack of interest on his friend's part to reclaim the shirt, Sherlock kept it as a memento. He only wore it to get him in a serious thinking mood, and when he was out of nicotine patches and John's nerves were too tried to take any more violin-squeaking.

"Hurry up, then," Lestrade snapped. "You're coming in the police car with us this time. No objections, or . . . you're off the case."

Sherlock blew his lips. A real horse couldn't have sounded less bothered.

"We'll wait in the hall," the DI huffed. "Two minutes." Grabbing the doorknob with a slippery hand, Lestrade still managed to close the door in one go, but not before throwing John a pointed look. _Don't let him dally_, it said.

"Right," John muttered.

"Sorry?" Sherlock's fingers made a few more decisive clicks of the mouse button, then closed the laptop and threw it Frisbee-fashion to the other end of the sofa. The computer bounced and turned with enough momentum that John prepared himself to make an emergency dive toward it.

"Nothing. Can't you be a bit more careful with . . . hey, that's mine!"

"I couldn't find mine," Sherlock explained as he jumped off the sofa and began stripping himself of his robe. "Might be under the bed, but I was already out here, so . . ."

"Then please don't throw it about like it's yours! You've already broken it twice!" The second time Sherlock unintentionally knocked the device from a precarious spot, the drive crashed and John needed a completely new machine. Unfortunately, the store was out of the model in his choice of colour, and the one he got ended up looking remarkably similar to Sherlock's. That made it even _more_ of a challenge to notice when Sherlock borrowed his laptop without permission. "What did you need to find out, anyway, that was so urgent you couldn't excavate your computer from the landfill that is your room?"

"Several things. No time to explain it all." The stale air in the shut-up flat, due to the incoming rain, parted like the Red Sea as Sherlock sliced through it toward his bedroom. He disappeared into the room's bowels for about four minutes, which John kept track of in case his flatmate decided to get into an argument about time with Lestrade. At the two minute mark, he popped his head into the hall and nodded to Lestrade. Lestrade rolled his eyes and nodded back. John smiled gratefully and shut the door behind him with consideration.

The speed at which Sherlock managed to transform from a bathrobe-toting ragdoll to a stylish consulting detective in just four minutes still astounded John. He suspected with trepidation that Sherlock secretly recycled the same clothes from a day or two ago without washing them, and just added some fragrant spray that hid his body odour on them. If that was so, he did manage to fool John's nose. His clothes looked crisp and fresh every single time. Maybe Sherlock filled his closet with a month's worth of suits so that he needn't worry about laundry every week.

Whatever his secret, today was no exception. Sherlock came out brushing the sleeves of his jacket with his hands, as if he were about to leave for a business meeting or a dinner party. The sides of his hands and the cool flash of his eyes worked better than any lint brush.

"All right, Madonna," said John, "we need to get going. Aren't you keen to sniff around Gary's secret flat?"

"Abso_lu_tely," Sherlock purred as he grabbed both their coats. His voice stressed and raised the pitch on the third syllable. He showed off his excited grin to John. "By the way, did you know that from 2006 to 2008, St Martin-in-the-Fields underwent a major renovation project that included the church, underground spaces and other buildings in the area? It was a £36-million project."

"Oh." John adjusted the sleeves of his jumper under those of his coat. "That's . . . interesting."

Sherlock bent his head forward and narrowed his eyes on John. "You don't find that significant?"

John could only shrug. "Should I?"

"Don't you remember what Gary was doing before he started working at the Palace Theatre?"

John squinted as he remembered, which made his widened eyes look even bigger. "Construction! He worked at a construction firm! Which was how . . ."

"Which was how he came into contact with the theatre in the first place, which _also_ underwent a renovation project." With his scarf in place, Sherlock seized the handle on the second door that led out of the kitchen directly into the hall. His grin kept growing longer. "Food for thought."

The rain began pounding on the London streets when Sherlock and John came out the door of 221. Any efforts to defy Lestrade's command and hail a taxi were dismissed. John made a mental note that a brolly would have been a wise item to bring with them, but when he mentioned it aloud Sherlock shrugged it off. Oh, yes, his flatmate was _definitely_ not in any danger of weakening his immune system and contracting some nasty bug. Nope, not at all.

"The address," Sherlock demanded as soon as the car pulled away from the curb.

He and John took their seats in the back, although Sherlock chose the right seat instead of the left. Lestrade took the liberty of claiming the passenger's seat in front, which meant he now had to turn around awkwardly to speak to Sherlock. At least the consulting detective had the consideration to sit in Lestrade's more direct line of sight.

"You'll never guess," Lestrade remarked with a knowing grin.

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "New Compton Street."

Lestrade's pleased look dropped into jaw-hanging astonishment, and then puckered annoyance. "Can I never take you by surprise?"

"Only when you least expect it." Sherlock graced Lestrade with a half-smile that both teased and comforted. "But you were right."

The DI started. "I was?"

"Yes. I _never_ guess."

After a rumbling sigh, Lestade asked, "All right, then – how did you know?"

"It makes perfect sense." Sherlock's gaze did a jig between Lestrade and John as he spoke. "The people involved in Gary's murder were very familiar with his habits – they might even be people he knew well. If they wanted his death to look like a mugging, they couldn't simply leave him in a random alley. He had to be placed somewhere that was both hidden and a conceivable location for him to pass through on his way home. Gary found a residence in close proximity to the theatre so he could go home at a late hour without travelling far. Since he was killed at the theatre, the killers had to move him only a few blocks."

"_Only_ a few?" Lestrade said with a scoff.

"If it'd been any farther, they might have been forced to use a car," Sherlock clarified. "But that could have drawn attention to themselves, since the body would have been taken outside."

"So the whole thing was premeditated," Lestrade said after a thoughtful pause. It seemed the logical conclusion given the peculiar details of the crime scene. Apparently assured of his conclusion, Lestrade nearly turned forward.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Not necessarily."

Lestrade promptly looked back again. "Why not?"

"Not enough evidence. I'm not convinced everything was planned, either. The intent might have been to kill, but the purpose of the mugging cover-up was to disguise the motive for the crime, and by extension the culprits and location. That was devised in the aftermath of the murder. If they planned on making his death look like a mugging from the start, they would've waited until he'd been closer to his flat. There was no reason to kill Gary right then and there in his office, as far as we know. There's something else, too."

Sherlock's speech suddenly dropped off, which pulled Lestrade and John closer to him in anticipation.

"Yes?" Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock fully smiled now. "You didn't notice something odd about his desk? Either of you?"

John scowled as he thought. "There was blood on the desk. Is that odd?"

Sherlock leaned toward his flatmate. "If Gary was staying in his office to work, where were the papers? If his killers' appearance was unexpected, then the papers were removed by them. If not . . . if he _had_ expected them, then it's likely he would've put them away."

John suddenly remembered Sherlock rummaging through the drawers in Gary's desk back at his office. "Did you see them?"

"He kept his paperwork in manila folders in two of the drawers. One folder marked 'Tech Dept' was empty."

Lestrade twisted himself about to look at Sherlock from a more comfortable angle. "That's right. The boys in my unit noticed that, too. So they were stolen? For what?"

"Maybe that was why they killed Gary!" John exclaimed. His heart pounded at the prospect of having finally uncovered a concrete lead.

Sherlock shook his head like a patient schoolmaster. "No. That wasn't it."

"Then why were they taken?" Lestrade pressed. The muscles in his cheeks stretched and stiffened the longer he waited for an explanation.

"Very simple." Sherlock leaned back in his seat. "Blood spattered on them. They had to be removed or destroyed. I wondered whether any papers had been compromised when I saw that the desk was bare of many other things. People usually customise their workspace with all kinds of bric-a-brac. Gary had nothing but his computer, a cup of pens and a glass bowl of assorted mints, all of which were placed on the right side. They'd been safe from the spray of blood."

There was no stopping the bubble of excitement inflating inside of John as he listened to Sherlock's serpentine train of thought. "Incredible," he chuckled when his chest couldn't hold it in anymore.

Sherlock tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His entire face was one serene smirk. Even Lestrade had to give an impressed and slightly winded sigh after that.

"Well, all right. Let's see if you can work your magic at this place, too."

"Will do. Wake me up when we get there."

John peered out the window and cleared his throat. "Uh, we're here."

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He jerked upright in the seat. "Oh. Good."

'Here' was near the end of New Compton Street. The avenue made John strangely claustrophobic despite the fact it was two-way. The fault lay in the supposed dead-end that stood beyond the Phoenix Garden, although in reality it took a left and turned into the head of Stacey Street, which intersected with Shaftesbury Avenue. But the buildings on both sides were tall, too, like a pair of human hands flanking a group of ants. The closeness he felt in the street and the rain splashing on him made John all too eager to dash for the door to the building Lestrade headed toward. As the detective inspector rapped on the door for the landlord, John glanced back and saw Sherlock still holding his seat inside the police car, glaring fiercely at the torrent just beyond the open door. The man honestly had the temperament of a spoiled cat.

There was no time for complaints. Lestrade's knocks were soon answered by an old man with barely any hair left on his shiny head. "Yes?" he said to both men with a disgruntled grimace. His voice had the softness of rocks scraping across sandpaper.

"New Scotland Yard, Mr Polley," stated Lestrade, holding up a document he struggled to protect from the rain. "We need to take a look at Mr Joseph Gary's flat. Would you kindly direct us to it?"

The way the landlord's eyebrows went up looked more like an involuntary twitch. "I see. Fine, come in. Wipe your feet first, if you don't mind, sirs."

John's heart lifted as the passage to dryness opened before him. It then jumped and somersaulted when a mighty force blew past him and Lestrade and nearly knocked them back out into the unrelenting storm.

Though struck dumb for a second by being so rudely intercepted, Lestrade gained his voice once he stepped over the threshold. "SHERLOCK!"

John shook his head and ruffled his hair to get the water out. He glanced up the stairs to spy Sherlock already on his way to Gary's rooms. Shouting and scolding would have been pointless by now. Lestrade was left only to mutter, "How does he move so bloody fast?"

It took John a moment to realise that Mr Polley had, in fact, blurted out the flat number before Sherlock dashed away like a buck rabbit, but his colleagues had missed it. Lestrade asked the man to repeat it for him. Mr Polley responded by giving the inspector the key. "Second floor, number 6."

The DI and the doctor took their time climbing the stairs to the correct floor, and were rewarded with an impatient Sherlock tapping his foot and leaning against the door.

"You're being slow on purpose, aren't you?"

"Put a sock in it," Lestrade quipped. "You're lucky I'm giving you the first look. Forensics will be here in fifteen minutes."

After clicking the lock open, Lestrade stepped aside in time to clear out of Sherlock's way. He let John go by, too. John quietly thanked him.

There didn't seem to be anything very suspicious about Gary's flat. It was a one-bedroom with the living area and kitchen directly attached to each other. The oak floorboards in the living area were shielded by a large Persian rug of good quality. John even knelt down just to test how soft it was. A similar, smaller rug occupied the floor in the bedroom, too, which had one single-size bed, a wardrobe and a desk which Gary must have used for work. It was equipped with a flat-screen computer and included drawers on the right side.

The whole place was very modern with florescent lights imbedded in the ceiling, casement windows that swung open and lent a view of the street and the Phoenix Garden, and the black-marble kitchen counters and sharp-edged, metal-handled cabinets. The microwave, fridge and electric stove and oven were included as well. Yet the wooden boards and tope-painted walls gave it a homier, classic ambiance that suited an older resident. The choice of furniture reinforced the notion with one reclining leather chair, a low coffee table and a modest TV set with a black VCR/DVD player. Nothing fancy. It appealed to John – if only he could afford the whole lot, even the furniture, and stay here whenever Sherlock gave him migraines.

John and Lestrade were still lingering in the main area when Sherlock called John to come look at the loo in the bedroom. That was enough of an invitation for Lestrade to come along as well. They found Sherlock standing like a sentinel directly beside the door to the toilet. His eyes addressed John. "Take a look."

Nerves tingling at what he might see, John came round and leaned his head through the doorway. His body unwound a notch at the sight of an ordinary sink, shower, toilet and the usual linens. No nasty surprises lying in wait. No bloodied clothes or dismembered bodies.

"It's nice," John muttered, mostly praising its cleanliness. At least the victim wasn't a slob.

"You're not observing, John," Sherlock scolded. "What do you see?"

John grunted a sigh. "I see . . . a clean loo. Looks like it's been used recently, though, so it didn't have a scrub job done on it."

"Good. What about the towels?"

John stepped further inside and touched the big one hanging on the metal rack. "Dry." He sniffed it. "But used, so not washed recently. That means Gary was here within the last few days."

"Same goes for the bed," noted Lestrade aloud while running his eye over said furniture. It looked like a chimpanzee had tried to make it. The sheets had been thrown on haphazardly. Plenty of lumps and wrinkles were still visible.

Sherlock didn't grin, but there was a light of knowingness in his eyes. "Gary probably hired someone to clean the flat for him once a week. That means he was here recently. Also, what does it remind you of?"

Lestrade stood up straight next to the bed and arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

John thought over the question silently. What did it remind him of? It seemed like an ordinary flat, like one he might own with enough money in his account. He no longer left his bed in such a state, though, after having served in the army. But before that . . .

The light in his head went on. "It's like a bachelor's flat," John answered, turning around and joining the men in the bedroom.

"Exactly." Sherlock grinned and nodded back toward the towels. "One set of towels, one single bed, the single leather chair . . . this isn't a love nest. That doesn't necessarily mean Gary and Malaika weren't fooling around, but it couldn't have been something serious. That was not why Gary rented the flat." The grin on his face suddenly vanished when he eyes alighted on the floor. He scrunched his brow.

John noticed and was ready to ask about it when Lestrade cut in. "Wait, what? Who on earth is Malaika?"

Sherlock looked up to explain, dropping the curious scowl. "Malaika Qadir is a woman who works at St Martin-in-the-Fields as the organist. She knew Joseph Gary about seven years and seems to have had a close relationship with him. Possibly an affair, although the contents of this flat don't support it. Lyla Gary suspected her husband of infidelity with Malaika, which has created tension in their relationship, as you can imagine. You didn't meet her because she arrived after you left and, apparently, no one drew your attention to her existence. Is that true?"

Lestrade folded his arms and shrugged helplessly. "Never came up. Is she a wallflower?"

John jumped in. "I doubt she wouldn't catch your eye if you saw her. She's a former Muslim and still wears the veil."

If Lestrade had ever looked shocked to John in the past, none of those incidents compared to the bugging eyes and disbelieving scoff he witnessed now. Someone might as well have told him the Queen was a hermaphrodite. "You've got to be joking!"

"That's why no one will talk about her," Sherlock said in a lower, more gravelly voice. "They let her perform for them up in the loft, but she isn't allowed to come down during the service or mingle with the rest of the parish afterwards." A dark, unanticipated mood was beginning to cloud Sherlock's humour.

"Can't say I really blame them," Lestrade admitted. "I'm sorry for her, too, but you have to consider what that sort of thing does to a well-regarded church like St Martin. I'm surprised they didn't encourage her to leave."

Sherlock started to nod, but then froze. The scowl returned, but he was staring straight ahead. His jaw clenched a little.

"Sherlock?" John approached his friend, sensing that something had dawned on him, and it wasn't a happy realisation. "Something wrong?"

His friend stay spaced-out for a few more seconds, then blinked and jiggled his head. "It's nothing." He put a hold on any further explanations. Sherlock walked over to the two-and-a-half metre tall mahogany wardrobe standing against the left wall, and pressed his weight against it. To John it looked like Sherlock was trying to tilt it back. Its front legs may have lifted four millimetres off the ground, but even that exhausted Sherlock's strength in a blink. He let it drop back down.

"_Careful_," hissed Lestrade.

Sherlock tried the desk next. That looked lighter, but the detective could hold it only two centimetres off the ground for about five seconds. He set it down more gingerly, though the floor quietly creaked beneath him. He then returned to John's side, where the rug ended. He lifted it as much as he could to inspect its underside and the floor.

"Is this important?" John enquired. Lestrade was too busy gawking at the young detective's movements. His upper lip pulled up into a baffled sneer.

"Someone's moved the rug." Sherlock dropped it and pointed to the bit in front of the heavy wardrobe. "See those six round indentations, and the three bigger ones surrounding them? See how they're lined up? They're from the feet of the chair and desk. Two of the small ones are from the chair when it was pushed all the way in, and four are from when Gary sat in it."

"Why only two for the first position?" Lestrade asked.

"Because the other two are hidden under the wardrobe. Same goes for the back legs of the desk."

John gazed at the spot Sherlock pointed out. "Why would anyone bother to move it, and only less than a metre?"

Sherlock hopped onto his feet and scanned the room with wide eyes. "Probably wanted to hide something. Forensics will look into it for us." He whipped his gaze toward Lestrade. "We have more urgent business to attend to, I'm afraid. Let's go, John."

John jumped into action about a second after realising this sudden shift in activity. He felt as startled as Lestrade looked, but he didn't think he was in a position to question Sherlock yet. Not until he knew what his friend had in mind. If Sherlock had seen what he needed to see in the flat, it would be in their best interest to press on.

"Are you sure you've got what you need?" asked Lestrade, following closely behind them to the door to the flat.

"Quite sure." Sherlock wore a rather perturbed expression on his pale face. Wherever it was he wanted to go, he looked anxious to get there as soon as possible. "Text me on what you find. The sooner, the better."

John waited to ask until the door shut soundly, Lestrade's still befuddled face behind it, and they were halfway down the steps. "What's next, then?"

"St Martin-in-the-Fields," said Sherlock. "We need to talk to Malaika Qadir. I have a feeling she might be in trouble."


	13. White Paint Peels, Too

Of course the thirteenth chapter would give me the most trouble out of all of them so far. Bleh. There probably are typos in this chapter, too.

By the way, I know I'm a day late, but Happy Birthday, Benedict!

* * *

Chapter 12: White Paint Peels, Too

"We're going to see Mrs Gary again?" John rubbed his hands against the chill of the wet day. He threw a look around the interior of the cab for an accessible heater. "How do we even know she'll be there?"

"We don't," Sherlock murmured. "If she's not, we can get a hold of her home phone or mobile. It's Malaika and the church I'm more interested in."

To John's relief, he found himself sitting next to a shuttered heating vent. He shifted his buttocks to the left and planted his hands against it. He pursed his lips when he heard Sherlock's last sentence. "Why the church?"

After sniffing through semi-stuffed nostrils, Sherlock replied, "I want to see if there's a connection between the renovation projects. The matter may just be a coincidence, but I'm not going to risk ignoring it. It gives us something to do while Lestrade unearths more clues on Gary's activity."

"You think a connection could give us an idea of what Gary was doing?" John scratched at a small patch of itchy skin on the back of his scalp. "Won't his computer at the flat tell us more?"

There was a schism between words and tone as Sherlock softly answered, "Perhaps." His concise response failed to mask contradictory suspicions that were growing in his mind. A flicker of a reptilian smile made the corners of Sherlock's mouth curve up into his cheeks. He balled his left hand into a fist and leaned the same arm against the window. Staring at the splattering rain supposedly helped him think more clearly than looking at his companion.

"Let's suppose for a moment, though, that Gary was involved in something illegal. He decides to rent a flat of his own so his wife won't accidentally become involved. Given that he's a theatre manager who originally worked as a clerk for a construction firm, we can surmise he's a puppet rather than an entrepreneur. Mrs Gary had every right to be surprised at her husband's dramatic career shift; he couldn't have done it on his own. So he's a pawn for a more powerful criminal. Given his clandestine background, according to his wife, he's been involved in bad business for a good long while – we're not dealing with a novice. His cover as a manager doesn't give him opportunities to travel much or come into contact with valuables merchandise or weapons. He could therefore either be a contact for his boss with other powerful people – Soho is very conducive for that sort of elbow-rubbing – or he deals in information. What kind of information we don't know, but we do have a clue when considering how he switched from the firm to the theatre."

"Construction," John chimed in immediately, as if Sherlock had put the word in his mouth. It still took a second for the meaning of his answer to seep in. "Ah! So, you're thinking that Gary dealt in some racketeering enterprise involving construction, which explains the renovations for the two places he was most closely associated with."

Two silver-blue eyes locked on John, glittering like aquamarine stones. "Exactly, assuming he has criminal liaisons at all."

John's skin tingled at the theory, yet he wasn't quite satisfied. "But if there was something underhanded going on during those renovations, how would the church's records be of any help? Gary might have tampered with them in some way if he was involved."

"That's what I'm counting on."

"But won't his files show us the real story?"

Sherlock groaned like a hungry tiger. "Do I have to explain _everything_? I said Gary wasn't a novice, so any vital information he kept at his flat wouldn't just be lying out there for us to see. He would have protected it by encrypting the files or storing them somewhere safe."

Another idea came to John. It was only another theory, and one that didn't have much evidence in its defence, but it seemed worth putting out there. "If the information he safeguarded was so valuable, could _that_ be the reason why he was killed? Could the 'mugging' have been a hit?"

Sherlock let his gaze wander somewhere in the space in front of him. "I told Lestrade that the facts don't point to premeditation, or if they do, to very poor premeditation. If the killers wanted information, they could have just broken into his flat for it . . . unless Gary had obscured it so well that they had to wring it out of him."

"That could be the reason why they came for Gary at his office – for an interrogation," proposed John. "And then they moved his body so it looked like he'd been killed on his way home."

Sherlock wrinkled his forehead. "But why the theatre? Why not the flat? Do the same thing, but closer to where they dropped him off. Far more convenient. In fact, it would have been better to kill him in the theatre and _leave_ him there. The information they wanted was in his flat, not the theatre. That'd be enough of a diversion for the police."

"But not you," John remarked with a smirk.

Sherlock returned the smirk with a touch more smugness. "Obviously."

"But maybe they didn't know it was in his flat. They could have thought Gary kept it hidden among his papers in the office."

"That would have been a good cover on his part. We may find he did that. Yet aside from the clean-up, there's no sign of anything being disturbed."

John nearly jumped out of his seat at the prospect of catching his friend off guard. "Except those missing papers from the desk! The ones you said were sprayed with blood. What about those?"

He was answered by a frosty glare and an arched eyebrow. "'Technical Department'? Oh, yes, I'm sure he had a _wealth_ of information stored in that file. Besides, nothing else was touched. Lestrade will tell you as much later. Why carefully conceal their presence and then not bother to fill the empty file with something so as not to draw anyone's attention?"

John sighed, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "Maybe they're just not that smart, Sherlock. Can you never make room for mistakes on the part of the criminals?"

Hands slapped together like thunder. Sherlock rapped the conjoined knuckles of his thumbs against his forehead. "No, no, no!" he cried in time with the knocks. "They're _not_ idiots, John. Believe me, if they were, this case would have been cracked much sooner. Could they have made mistakes? Of course, but this isn't one of them. You can tell by – wait."

Sherlock pressed himself against the window to peer through the rain. He rubbed a gloved hand to wipe off some of the mist that had formed on the inside of the cold glass. He stared for a second and then turned to John, eyes filled with lightning. "We're here."

The cab came to a stop shortly after his declaration. Coats turned into makeshift hoods to shield their wearers. The two friends made a beeline for the church offices through the freezing downpour. John considered himself a decently fast runner, but there was no comparing to the magic bullet that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a revival of New Compton Street – the detective was off like a jet engine and gave no care about leaving his flatmate behind in the puddles of the slated courtyard. The vestry building stood only twenty strides away, so John was only as wet as a partially-drowned rat when he reached shelter.

From there they once more hiked up to the third storey where Lyla Gary's office resided. Sherlock nearly barged in to the secretary's chamber, but managed to remember to give the door a courteous knock first. He didn't feel compelled to wait for a full answer of permission from Ms Anne Black. The bespectacled brunette jolted in her seat as Sherlock lunged forward and loomed like a vengeful giant in front of her desk.

"Morning. Is Mrs Gary in? I'm Sherlock Holmes from yesterday and I must speak with her immediately."

Ms Black sat up and began rolling her pen between her fingers. Must have been a trick she used to regain her professional composure. "I'm afraid she won't be in for a while, sir. On Mondays she comes in from two to six o'clock. If you would like me to take a message or set up an appointment, I'll happily oblige."

Sherlock huffed. "Is Ms Qadir in, then? I'd like to speak to her as well."

Ms Black's pencil-thin eyebrows, as black as the rims of her square lens, dove toward each other like two fit Olympic divers. "I'm sorry? Ms who?"

John saw Sherlock's shoulders lock with mounting stress. "Qadir. Malaika Qadir. Is she in today? If not, could you tell me when she will be?"

"Are you certain you have the name right? Malaika Qadir? I don't recall—"

"Black veil," Sherlock cut in, his voice a whetted blade. "She wears a burqa and a veil."

Ms Black's eyes fluttered. "_Oh_. Right. Sorry, her name slipped my mind. I only knew . . . yes, sorry." She cleared her throat in the way soft-spoken people do when they have to deliver bad news. "She worked under Mrs Gary, yes?"

The detective straightened his back. "'Worked'?"

"Yes." The tiny Adam's apple bulging out of the secretary's stork-like throat gently glided up and down as she swallowed. It looked like she was trying to down a whole sparrow's egg and failing miserably. "I'm afraid she was dismissed yesterday afternoon. Are you friends of hers?"

"Is there a way we can get in touch with her?" Sherlock queried sharply. "Phone number? Address?"

"I'll check the directory, if you'd like," said Ms Black in a more chipper tone.

"Please do."

She gave a cordial nod. "Please take a seat outside. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Thank you." As Sherlock swept past John towards the door, he caused a small breeze to graze the doctor's face. At the same time he planted a question near John's ear in a whisper. There was only one word: "Construction."

It was enough to jog John's memory. He let Sherlock make his exit before approaching Ms Black with one of his most affable and guileless smiles. "Thanks for your help. We really appreciate it."

The secretary glanced away from the computer and eyed John with a professional but friendly look. "You're very welcome. Do you two know her well?"

John raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "More like a friendly acquaintance. We, uh, met her through Joseph Gary. Just wanted to check in on her to make sure she's all right, what with his passing and all."

"Ah. Right." Ms Black's affable demeanour dulled a bit, which she tried to mask by stretching her mouth in a flat smile and looking back at the computer screen instead of directly into John's eyes. "She was a friend of Mr Gary's, then?"

John feigned polite surprise. "Yes. I assumed most people knew. But I guess if you didn't know her . . ."

"No, no. I knew that she was the organist and was closest to the Garys. I'm just Mrs Gary's secretary, though. I'm not privy to many personal details about her or her husband."

A red flag popped up in John's mind. He held on to his casual tone. "But, then, how'd you know about Malaika getting sacked? Just word of mouth?"

Ms Black trained her eyes on the screen, but her stiffened expression told him she was floundering for an answer. "Mrs Gary might have mentioned it before she left yesterday. I . . . don't know why she would have. It did seem a bit odd to mention, but . . . well, it's her business." She pushed her glasses up her nose and flashed John a slightly warmer smile. She was trying too hard to seem innocent. "It's not my place to pry."

"I understand," said John quickly, not wanting to make a fuss out of it. He wanted to stay on her good side, after all. "Mrs Gary seems a nice enough person. A bit . . . distant, I guess, but in a respectable way."

Ms Black chuckled. She started to unwind as Malaika's relevance to the subject matter diminished. "She's a bit on the chilly side, but she's not the . . . well, the bitch you'd expect her to be." Another chuckle. Slightly more nervous. It was reasonable that as an employee at a church, Ms Black had to guard herself against make cursing a habit. He chuckled with her, though, which disarmed the secretary of her anxiety.

John waited little while before gently prodding the young woman for the information he actually wanted. He detected a faint tinge of guilt in his gut for chatting her up for such an impersonal reason. It wasn't simply because he was misleading her about his interest; he also was setting a bad example for Sherlock. Yes, his friend did this sort of thing already, but he shouldn't have encouraged him to treat people like this by doing it himself. John had to make peace with himself, though, if they were going to make any progress with the case. Some things, he hated to admit, were worth the risk of duping a few people. It was a fine line he despised walking, and despised it all the more when Sherlock used it to harass him about his 'moral self-righteousness'.

'At least I don't do it because they're just information ATMs,' he'd argue, to which Sherlock would reply, 'Oh, no, you have the decency to do it because you want a shag. _So_ much more noble.'

John cleared his throat to banish his recollections, then slipped his hands into his coat pockets. "How long you been working here?" He gave Ms Black another one of his winning grins.

"About five years." Her answer sported a hint of coyness, as did her smile.

"You like it here?"

"Absolutely. I never realised it until I started working here, but St Martin's is an interesting place. The concerts, the café, the academy, the international acclaim – there's so much going on I still can't believe it sometimes."

John blew a short, low whistle. "Sounds busy. And you just had some renovations done a few years back, right? The church, I mean. Gary mentioned it."

Ms Black's fingers plucked at the keyboard now and then, but John had gained her almost undivided attention. She allowed herself to lean back in her seat as they chatted. "That's right. I came here about halfway through the whole thing. I don't know about the finer details, but plenty of long-time employees – like Mr Nilsson, the sexton – have said the church seems to have got a new spark of life since the renovation."

"Mr Nilsson?" John raised his voice just enough that Sherlock could hear him from the hallway, if his friend was even listening. "The sexton. So he's . . ."

"The grounds keeper. Been here for years." Ms Black chose this moment to fix up her hair, giving John a good eyeful of the length and body of her tresses while she pulled out the elastic and made a higher queue. "He probably knows more about it than anyone else."

John's body straightened rather accidentally, but he covered it with another bright smile. "Really? That's fantastic – I've actually been dying to know more about all the renovations that've been done. I'm not an architect or anything, but it's a . . . side-interest of mine."

"If you want to talk with him," said Ms Black, enjoying being helpful, "I'm sure you'll find him if you look around. He's from Sweden, I think. Tall, broad, blond, and usually has a stubble. He just moseys about the place a lot of the time. Does most of the upkeep work on the weekend. He should be around the rest of the day." With her hair in its new position – and it did flatter her by showing off more of her neck – Ms Black resumed her search on the computer, her fingers making the keys click and clack like tap shoes.

"That's splendid," John said with genuine appreciation. "Thank you very much."

It might have been a small blessing that John hadn't thought of anything else to say after that. To him, it didn't feel right having their exchange end on an exploitative note, even though the secretary had volunteered all the information of her own volition. John still felt a bit unclean about it, and it made him draw a blank on further topics of discussion. At least the awkward silence that ensued didn't last too long. Even when quietude reigned, Ms Black's face quickly contorted in a befuddled but concentrated manner. Interrupting her search while she looked like that might have boded ill for John as well as Sherlock in their quest.

The look of consternation on the secretary's face didn't alleviate even when she addressed John again. "We don't seem to have contact information for Malaika Qadir. No phone, address or email." Her coffee-bean eyes, submerged in disappointment at her failure to help a new and likeable acquaintance, made John melt a little inside. "Sorry. Try looking her up in the phone book. I'm sure you'll have better luck there."

"It's all right," replied John, assuring her with an open grin that there was nothing to forgive. "Thank you again for telling me about Mr Nilsson. You have a pleasant day."

Ms Black wished him the same. Her smile almost mimicked his. They both raised a hand in a wave that wasn't really a wave, since their hands didn't move, but it carried the same meaning.

When John faced Sherlock again, who had curled up his legs in front of him, feet on the seat, and was tapping his fingers on the tops of his knees with eyes shut, all the ease and amiability John felt in the room dropped out of his stomach, making a splatter on the floor visible only in John's imagination. Getting that information was all too easy.

"Don't kick yourself over it," chided Sherlock before he even opened his eyes. When he did, he glimpsed at John and threw him a twisted half-smirk.

"You're turning me into a monster," John tossed back in dead monotone. "Let's just find Mr Nilsson, all right?"

That was fine with Sherlock. Down the stairs they trundled, or what felt like trundling at the speed Sherlock had set for them. Sometimes it was as if Sherlock didn't really have feet; he could have achieved mobility by the mere power of his brain as far as John was concerned. That was essentially how his flatmate did anything, in the figurative sense. No real reliance on physical energy, or physical wellness. His brain was the engine that never stopped, so a portion of its output was allocated to keeping him going when a good mystery gave him sustenance.

Their return to the outside world showed that the weather had improved since their departure. The driving rain had mellowed into a curtain of mist. It did not, however, brighten their prospects of finding Mr Nilsson. Given the weather, Sherlock assumed that Nilsson was most likely inside staying dry and warm. The church looked like the most reasonable place to check first. John was sent up the creaky stairs to the loft with the organ and the balcony seats while Sherlock scoured the ground floor and the chambers flanking the sanctuary. No sign of the sexton. Even with its immense size, the pair took only a few minutes of skulking to see that Nilsson was not there. When they met up again outside the church, both men's eyes fell on a small glass-walled pavilion sitting between the church and another building. On one side they saw the word 'Crypt', standing out as clear as day. They looked at each other for a shrug of confirmation, which they each got. Well, why not?

John remembered the episode when he went into the Crypt under St Martin-in-the-Fields for the first time for a long time afterwards. That was mainly because it was one of those surprises that, interestingly enough, had nothing to do with Sherlock. The detective appeared equally amazed but less perturbed by the stylish layout of the café. It resembled, in many ways, a typical cafeteria. Square tables dotted the space, each surrounded by four chairs with black fabric seats and metal legs. The light filling the vaulted room was being emitted from electric lamps that'd been installed on all four sides of each pillar. The florescent bulbs drew John's attention to the crusted white filling between the bricks in the ceiling and the slates (and grave markers) on the floor. While the glare did illuminate the room, it also kept him aware of the building's antiquity and the gradual decay that was taking place even after a fix-up. But it wasn't unpleasant or unwelcoming. A few of the tables were already occupied by visitors eating a late breakfast or early luncheon. Food staff seemed to pop out of the brickwork laden with boxes or cartons, striving not to trip on or catch their draping aprons on a stray table corner.

For all the added pleasantness, however, John couldn't grasp the café's appeal to the general public. For one, it was chilly like a graveyard at midnight. Its size also put him off. The room didn't exactly have an embracing, heart-warming ambiance to it, and who knew if there were still corpses encased inside the centuries-old walls? John could admit the Crypt Café had a charm of its own, in a historic and mildly morbid way, but he didn't plan on staying around long enough to eat there. Some place above ground would do just fine.

"And Malaika said they hold concerts in here?" John wondered aloud, though he assumed Sherlock was standing close by to hear. "Do you think the acoustics really work . . . Sherlock?"

When he turned and realised his friend had abandoned him, John spun 360 degrees and called out Sherlock's name again with more vexation. His temper dropped back down when he spotted his friend with a middle-aged Asian chap standing behind the sandwich bar. Groaning, John stormed over to them. The effort became unnecessary when Sherlock walked back towards him. John halted in his tracks to prevent a collision.

"Well?"

"Nilsson should be here in half an hour. He comes in around noon every day for lunch. Deming said we could wait for him here. He'll direct him to us. The man is a monolith, though, so it shouldn't be difficult to ID him."

"As tall as the Golem?" John couldn't resist asking.

"Not quite, but still conspicuous." Sherlock let a grin slip. He then led the way to the table of his choice, which stood against one of the pillars. As the detective, of course, Sherlock also seized the first choice of seat. He wanted a view of the entrance and the sandwich bar, which Mr Nilsson would go to first when he appeared. Their vigil was a tad more awkward than usual – not that that was a rare occurrence – since John had eaten only two hours ago. Sherlock wouldn't have eaten even if his stomach had been void of food for days. After ten minutes of silence, John received a dizzying shock when Sherlock started pressing him to get a boxed sandwich or a bag of crisps. Not for him, of course.

"But I'm not hungry. We had a late breakfast, remember?"

"We can't both look like we're waiting. You'll be hungry in an hour, anyway, so go get something."

"No! _You_ get something if you're so paranoid. You ate less than I did."

"I don't need anything."

"Neither do I!"

Sherlock levelled a piercing look between John's eyes. "You've been eating less than usual lately. Ever since the scale broke, you've become disturbingly obsessed with losing weight."

John almost squeaked as he cried, "No thanks to you! And I _not_ obsessed!" He shifted uneasily in his seat when he caught the glances of a few puzzled patrons out of the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "I'm not going to allow my flatmate and doctor to starve himself over a few measly pounds that he didn't even gain." The detective softened the timbre of his voice to that of a troubled parent, which only made him sound more condescending. John could see the evil smile hiding behind those concerned eyes. His ears turned hot.

"You're a medical professional, John." Sherlock smiled sweetly. "You should know better."

"You're not going to wind me up over this. I just wanted to try skimmed milk for a change, and it was _you_ who broke the scale!"

Sherlock's mouth folded downward, and his voice turned into an iron weight. "Get. Some. Food."

John gritted his teeth against the order. No, he had more willpower than that. Taking Sherlock's demands for a case or for anything he needed was one thing, but John was _not_ about to let his friend dictate his eating habits. No way in hell was he going to . . .

_Dammit!_ A minute and a half of resistance against the pressure of the mad detective's stare ended in John snarling under his breath and roughly shoving his chair out from under him as he stood. He was going to get Sherlock Holmes one of these days, even if it killed him. He asserted this vow to himself the whole way to the sandwich bar and back.

On his return, John set the BLT at his place and tossed a bag of plain crisps to Sherlock. John came close to laughing when Sherlock let the bag to bounce off his chin without lifting a finger to catch it. Sherlock flinched and blinked. His mouth curled into a half-sneer, half-pout as he eyed the bag. How did it look so endearing on him?

Uneasy silence returned. John chewed on his sandwich without further objections, except for what his eyes could convey. Too bad Sherlock spent most of the time monitoring the doorway, rendering John's glares completely ineffective. Sherlock did, however, take a moment to open the crisps bag and set it between them so they could each take a portion. Neither of them touched it.

The BLT sandwich had been consumed out of existence, excusing a few crumbs on the table and John's lap, by the time a burly fellow with shorn flaxen bristles on his face and scalp ducked through the café door and exchanged a short exchange with Deming as he picked out his lunch.

Sherlock's left eyebrow went up. "No sudden moves."

John switched his attention from the Swedish weightlifter to Sherlock. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Just smile and pretend nothing's wrong."

The hairs on John's neck sprung up. He flip-flopped between examining Sherlock and the man he presumed was Nilsson in the hope of extracting an explanation. "_Is_ something wrong?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, "he's coming."

John could hear a pair of combat boots making footfalls from behind him along the stone floor. Sherlock slinked out of his chair and uncoiled his lanky body. "Jonas Nilsson, yes? Thank you for your time." He shot out a hand toward the barrel-chested man.

"It's no trouble, Mr Holmes," Nilsson replied in a gruff but civil manner. His small eyes, which mirrored Sherlock's as the two men scanned each other, sat deeply in his head under two bundles of straw-like hair that turned out to be eyebrows. He took Sherlock's hand in a firm grip and gave it a single shake. John didn't envy that hand.

Whatever damages his metacarpals sustained from the contact, Sherlock was the human embodiment of self-possession after he allowed one passing wince to slip through his mask. He introduced Nilsson to John and encouraged John to make extra room for the sexton so he could sit next to him. Despite the stab of icy apprehension in his chest, John scooted toward the pillar. The effort still didn't spare him from feeling like he would be squished like a bug on the bricks. He also couldn't escape the heavy, earthy musk emanating from Nilsson's tawny leather jacket, which still glistened from the rain and water vapour from outside. It smelled like it had fermented in a wet cemetery for a week. The odour crowded his olfactory glands so badly that John couldn't breathe properly. That left the majority of conversation to Sherlock and the Incredible Hulk.

"You two have some questions about the church's history?" Nilsson spoke bluntly and continued to look over the visitors with arsenic eyes. Those orbs actually left a slight stinging sensation on John's skin, if that made any sense.

Sherlock spoke to Nilsson as if everything was business as usual. "John and I share a curiosity for historical sites. In fact, we both agree that they are a vital part of London's identity. We took a walk around the church this morning and were amazed at how well-kept it is. This café is also a marvellous innovation. I understand you have a great familiarity with the touch-up projects commissioned for the church. I have to commend you for it."

The well-defined muscles in Nilsson's block of a face relaxed a degree at Sherlock's effulgent praise of the buildings. That wouldn't be enough, though, from what John could tell. He held his peace but made himself ready to step in should the occasion require it, even at the risk of finding his head reduced to a bloody lump with one shove of Nilsson's right shoulder.

"I'm not really involved in all the planning for the fixing up," Nilsson clarified in a rumbling baritone that would have humbled a grown lion. John was a little impressed by the Swede's fluency and almost nonexistent accent. He must've had a good head for languages. "In terms of actual labour, I enjoy it and find it rewarding when it turns out as well as it does. And that people like you appreciate it. What exactly are you interested in?"

Sherlock pushed his façade of sincere interest to the brink of fanaticism. He looked more and more like an eager schoolboy on a class trip. "Well, the time and energy that is placed in renovations must be extraordinary. It shows how much your employers care about this place. Just how extensive have the renovations been?"

Nilsson shifted in his chair. The metal rods holding up the seat creaked and cried under the moving weight. John took a quick breath and held it while he watched the bars bow.

"You might already know this, but three to five years ago the church sponsored a major restoration project. Most of the work done then was for the church and the public areas surrounding it. Maybe you noticed the new window above the sanctuary, with the odd hole in the middle. An Iranian architect was commissioned to design it to give the building a more contemporary feel. Changes like that were made to revitalise St Martin's for the new millennium. But we also expanded our storage spaces and the visitors' facilities. It gets hectic with events held here."

"I understand," said Sherlock. "It sounds like a massive undertaking. Do you know where the funding for it comes from?"

Nilsson shrugged, which to John felt like the Himalayas rising fifty metres off the ground. "Different sources. The church raises plenty of money through its events, and from donations made by visitors and the congregation."

Sherlock spent a second letting his eyes skip around, knitting and rubbing his fingers together as he did. He absorbed every detail of the man across from him. When he spoke again, he carefully proceeded with his questioning. "For such a huge project, you need a contractor you can rely on. Someone trustworthy and with years of experience under his belt. Who did your employers go to?"

The huge man tilted his head to the left. John's stomach bounced a few times during the tense pause. "It's not really that important, is it? Or are you looking for a contractor with St Martin's seal of approval?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock brushed away the question with feigned nonchalance. "I'm simply a curious man. This sort of thing fascinates me. And John, too."

John blurted a quick "yeah" and tried to smile at Mr Nilsson. He probably looked like a complete twit, but as long as they left the crypt with their necks still properly aligned, John didn't care if he came across as mentally challenged. All right, maybe he'd care a little, but not enough to have a row with the Swede whose body content consisted mostly of muscle.

Nilsson paid John little mind. He preferred to devote his attention to the person asking the questions. His grey gaze, like a northern blizzard, met Sherlock's serene winter-morning eyes. "'Curious' – I can see that." Two heavy arms lay down on the table, making the polished surface slant a few centimetres south in his direction. "All right, I'll tell you. We initially engaged Balfour Beatty's services for the work, but a conflict of interest – I'm not sure what – caused progress to fall through early on. So we switched to a smaller company that proved to be very reliable." Nilsson raised and spread his lumberjack hands without lifting his arms. John could see the mountain chains of veins on them popping up underneath his skin. "That's all there is to it. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Nearly," said Sherlock. He didn't shy away from the fierce glare or the hands. "What was the name of the company?"

"Brennan and Devine. I don't know who else they've worked for."

"Do you know who recommended them?"

"I'm afraid not," said Nilsson. He sat as still as a boulder and gave the impression of being just as immovable.

Sherlock let the conversation fizzle on that prickly note, which didn't seem wise to John. However, the lull in chatter ended up being an artful transition from the moment Sherlock knew he'd scrounged all the information he could, to the one when he declared his retreat. His expression turned wry during this pause.

"Well, I don't want trespass on your luncheon any further," he announced with a sprinkle of imposed friendliness. "You have been most helpful. Thank you again for you time."

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?" Nilsson enquired in a voice as flat as a frozen lake.

"We already ate." The scrape of Sherlock's chair against the floor stung John's ears, but it sounded as sweet as a choir of angels by its significance. John rose with his friend and gave Nilsson a "cheers" and farewell nod.

John and Sherlock managed to put five steps between them and the husky sexton when Nilsson shouted, "Hold on a moment!"

Tension seized John's shoulders. Sherlock's hand went to his friend's left bicep and pressed it reassuringly. They pivoted in Nilsson's direction in unison.

Nilsson was dangling an open bag in front of him. "You forgot your crisps."

Glancing at each other, John and Sherlock let the air rush out of their lungs and the strain to roll off them like water on a seal's skin. Sherlock shifted back to Nilsson. "We're all set. Those sandwiches filled us up—"

"Thanks very much," cut in John. Not quite sure what came over him, although he did hear a quiet roar in his stomach, he marched over to Nilsson and reclaimed the crisps.

While John made his way back to Sherlock, stunned by his own sangfroid in response to the gargantuan sexton, the detective's face lit up with a new thought. "By the way," he called to Nilsson, "do you know when Gary's funeral is scheduled to take place?"

"Saturday morning at eleven," was all Nilsson provided before tearing into his boxed chicken salad sandwich. Sherlock's half-hearted 'thank you' seemed to fall on deaf ears.

John didn't utter another word until he was back at Sherlock's side and making the trek back up to the surface. It didn't seem necessary to explain himself unless the detective prompted him to, which he fully expected and was not left disappointed.

"I thought you said you weren't hungry," noted Sherlock.

"Well, I am now." John flicked a few crisps into his mouth, then rustled the bag at Sherlock. "Take one."

"I'm fine."

John stopped walking and shook the bag again. "Doctor's orders. I'm not the only one starving myself."

"I don't need . . ." Sherlock's protest trailed off as he glowered at the open bag with the same childish grimace from earlier. John was nearly convinced Sherlock wouldn't go for it, but a second before he was ready to put the bag away in his jacket, swift pale fingers snagged a flake and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth. His lips twisted and writhed as he chewed.

"I'm not doing it for you," he asserted after swallowing.

John beamed in the dark stairwell. "I know."

The return to fresh air and fog brought John's mind back to the case and helped him recall what they had and still needed to investigate about Joseph Gary. It didn't seem they'd learned much from that uncomfortable encounter with Nilsson. That is, until Sherlock felt able to speak freely without being overheard by any of the visitors or employees. The scowl he wore was not only a response to tasting food while on a case.

"Who do they think they're fooling? If he's supposed to be a garden variety sexton, I'm the prime minister of South Africa."

John coughed, dislodging some crisp crumbs in his throat as he did. "Actually, South Africa has a presi—"

"A former yakuza as a sexton – did they really think no one would notice?"

John came close to pulling a muscle in his neck from turning his head too fast. "I'm sorry?"

"Japanese mafia. Surely you saw his body tattoos."

"His _what_?" Everything inside John, from his gut to his brain, reeled. It felt like his entire body has been sucker punched.

Sherlock's eyes rolled about like magic 8-balls. "A half a centimetre of inked skin showed above the collar of his T-shirt. When he leaned on the table, the sleeves exposed the ink just below his wrists. The technique and style are characteristic of irezumi – hand-done tattoos injected underneath the skin. Has a distinctive look."

John waved his hands frantically, and the bag of crisps along with them. "Wait, wait a minute – Japanese tattoos? Aren't those really popular, especially among foreigners? What makes you think Nilsson is a mafia goon?"

"_Former_ mafia goon, and there is other correlating evidence."

"Such as?" John asked with a scoff.

"The knife nicks on his face and hands, and the scar that formed after a bullet grazed him just below the left ear, strongly indicate a history of violence. His manner of walking gave him away, too."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and reached for his phone in his coat pocket. "Okay," John continued, knowing his companion was still listening while he read over what John assumed to be a text, "what could that possibly tell you?"

One look at the message he'd received made a smirk appear on Sherlock's face. "The yakuza utilise a wide, arrogant gait to distinguish themselves for ordinary people." He stored the mobile away and strode with purpose toward the street. When John caught up with him, Sherlock continued. "He's been out of the business for a roughly a decade, but he still walks like one of them. Except for their tattoos, most yakuza have no qualm against showcasing their criminal affiliation."

"How do you know he's not one any longer?"

Sherlock waved a gloved hand for a cab, cursing the encroaching fog with a cutting glare. "Along with discarding the trademark hairstyle of the yakuza and growing a timid amount of facial hair, he often forgets about his tattoos and inadvertently exposes them through his choice of clothes and careless movements. A yakuza would only let his tattoos show if he _wanted_ them to be seen – that's the level of discipline expected of their society."

John sighed sharply and shook the shudders out of his system. "And what exactly has this got to do with the case?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock lightly, a bit more pleased now that a cab had stopped for them.

That wasn't the answer John was hoping to hear. His heart sunk a little at the idea that they could have learned more but didn't. They hadn't even tried to get their hands on the contracts for the renovation. "It was a bust, then?"

"Oh, no! Not at all!" Sherlock was behaving oddly upbeat about the state of things. When he instructed the cabby to take them to New Scotland Yard, things began to make a little more sense.

"Lestrade texted you?" John asked, even though he knew the answer. "With good news, I hope?"

"The forensics team swept the flat, and Lestrade seized Gary's computer to have its contents examined. Not because of what was in the flat, though."

John lifted his brows, befuddled by the alleged contradiction. "What, then?"

Sherlock half-turned toward him. There was that python smile again, complete with hooded eyes that could lure the most skittish creature into a false sense of security. "He ran a background check on Gary."

* * *

Phones rang off the hook, and computer keys clicked and clacked like women's high heels. John had been to NSY enough times not to be distracted by the sounds of the police headquarters and the flurry of bodies and papers coming to and fro as he and Sherlock wove through the labyrinth of cubicles to Lestrade's office. To Sherlock, of course, they might as well have not existed. As fast as he tried to move, John couldn't outpace Sherlock to their destination. With new data awaiting him in Lestrade's care, too, Sherlock left little room for consideration of anyone and anything else in his field of focus.

Four and a half piles of paperwork filled up most of Lestrade's desk when they came in. The DI was in the middle of a call, but Sherlock's appearance brought all other concerns and activities to a halt. He signed off with a brisk farewell and stood as Sherlock and John entered the room.

"I trust we've excavated a few treasures," Sherlock greeted, strolling in with his routine peacock strut, "from Gary's dirty past."

After resting the phone in its cradle and sorting some of the mess before him, Lestrade decided to get right to the matter. He sighed, walked around his desk while surveying the detective and the doctor, perched himself on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. "You're five steps ahead as usual, I see. Well, it's not been all that easy. Gary did seem to be living something of a double life. On the surface he appears to be a perfectly respectable individual: hard-working, well-off, involved with his parish, recognised professionally with awards and whatnot. When we go back farther than twelve years, though, it's harder to trace the bloke. It's as if he's lived two different lives, and he left the first behind to become Joseph Gary, humble clerk turned theatre manager. But even as Gary he's accrued a suspiciously lucrative income. We've also taken a look at the Palace's financial history. That has lots of holes, too."

This news set off an excited spark in Sherlock, but he forced himself to stay still. "So, 'Joseph Gary' isn't even his real name. Very interesting." He cast a glance back at John. "Looks like our 'criminal associations' theory was spot on." Winking at his friend, he switched back to Lestrade. "By the way, was the construction firm Gary worked for called Brennan and Devine?"

Both of Lestrade's arms and his jaw dropped. "How did you find that out?"

"A most intriguing man by the name of Jonas Nilsson gave us an abridged account of St Martin's renovation project. We thought perhaps it might be connected to Gary's previous job and the renovations done at the Palace Theatre."

Unable to keep still himself, Lestrade stood on his two feet again and walked about a bit. "Were you able to find one?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Not yet, but there is one. It can't be a coincidence now we've had confirmation from someone unconnected to the theatre. But I recommend you run a background check on him, too. Jonas Nilsson is the sexton and may still have international criminal connections. Or he could be trying to make a fresh start."

Lestrade, in a move that startled John, dramatically turned toward the consulting detective. "Speaking of background checks, I decided to do a little digging regarding Malaika Qadir. Do you still think she's crucial for this case?"

A blankness started to overlay Sherlock's facial response to the alteration in topic, but he complied by candidly answering Lestrade. "Lyla Gary had her sacked the other day, and it seems her contact details are not available through the church directory. Given her close relationship with Joseph Gary, regardless of its exact nature, I still hold to what I said earlier. She _is _important and we must get in touch with her soon."

"And like I said already," returned Lestrade, "that's been a bit difficult even for us."

Sherlock finally allowed a scowl to settle on his brow. "Why?"

John felt a chill run through his skin even before Lestrade lifted his hands in defeat and explained. "She has no phone – not a cell or a land line. Nor does she have an email address."

The corners of Sherlock's lips drooped. "What about a home address?"

Lestrade scratched the back of his head and ran his fingers through his sterling-gray hair. "We think we've narrowed it to a few places, all within . . . let's say, not-so-good neighbourhoods." The DI paused for a beat. It might have been because he read something in Sherlock's otherwise inscrutable expression, but John couldn't be sure. When he continued, Lestrade's words had lead-weighted feet. "They're the sort of places that people who shouldn't be in this country chose to live in as a way of keeping their illegitimacy a secret."

The chill became a cold snap inside the DI's office. The bustle of ordinary life in the cubicles outside carried on. They were trapped in a time capsule for a few infinite seconds.

Sherlock's deadened face implied he was submerging into his thoughts. In light of the situation, with Lestrade staring at Sherlock, anticipating a response of any kind, John dared to open his mouth.

"Illegal immigrant?"

Dark eyes flitted over to John. Lestrade inhaled deeply and turned more toward the army doctor. "That's what I'm thinking. A desperate foreign girl whom a man of questionable character, based on his background, decided to sponsor. It's not clear what she was doing for him in return, but I can tell you one thing: it won't look good for the Garys, St Martin's or the theatre's reputation if word gets around about this."

"She worked at the church," Sherlock put in quietly, making John and Lestrade glance at him. "She was an employee. What do her records say?"

"She did fill out the paperwork," Lestrade expounded, "but any details regarding contact information and previous experience were mostly fabricated. And I mean fabricated to the point that . . . there really is no Malaika Qadir."

"And where did her pay checks go?" A small burst of heat entered Sherlock's voice.

Lestrade chuckled incredulously, but without humour. He was as bewildered as the men to whom he passed on the information. "No record of a bank account in the name of Malaika Qadir. She could have one under another name, or she cashes her checks and keeps her earnings in a secret stash where she lives. But we can only speculate right now. It'd be helpful if we could get her in here for questioning."

"I might be able to arrange that," said Sherlock.

"Good. We'll keep airing out the laundry on Gary and the company he worked for. Who was the other fellow?"

"Jonas Nilsson. St Martin's grounds keeper, former yakuza member."

Lestrade's eyes rounded to about the same size as John's when Sherlock first told him. Then he shut them and shook his head slowly. "What is going _on_ at that church?"


	14. Two Tickets

Update: Fixed a major musical gaff and a spelling mistake (the latter thanks to WinterSky101).

* * *

Chapter 13: Two Tickets

The mood of the rest of the day was mixed even after Lestrade delivered his report on the theatre and Gary's flat. The paperwork stored in Gary's desk checked out. Only Gary's fingerprints were found on the files, including the empty one for the tech department. John pointed out that the culprits could have worn gloves, which was true, but the folder also came up clean for blood and powder burns from the murder weapon. This didn't entirely rule out tampering on the part of the culprits, since there were two and it took only one person to fire the gun.

"Do you not remember the spatter pattern on the desk?" Sherlock challenged in a harsh tone. "Even after the clean-up, there are still signs of a high concentration of blood drops along the edge of the desk's left side. Up any further, though, and they suddenly disappear. That's because there was something on the desk that caught the spray instead of the desk itself."

Despite how much they disliked his attitude, Lestrade and John finally conceded to Sherlock's conclusion, and the former moved on. Further enquiries of the theatre staff yielded some results, but they were minimal considering that the police were no closer to sorting out how the murderers accessed the sewers from inside the theatre. There were no clearly marked passages or doors that led into the sewers from what Lestrade's people found, and their efforts had been mostly thwarted by a series of traps they kept getting caught in.

"Traps?" John verified dubiously, unsure he'd heard the DI correctly.

"Yes! It was the most ludicrous annoyance I've ever encountered in an investigation. It seems like some sadistic prankster enjoys rigging traps. Most of them we triggered by tripping a hidden wire. One of my constables said he touched a spider web that had been in his line of vision, and suddenly a pile of rubbish came toppling down on his head! Another touched a metal railing and got a shock so bad she actually passed out. Everyone was getting their feet and arms caught in things and needed help getting free."

Sherlock, sitting in a rotating chair beside Lestrade's desk, swivelled it back and forth as he thought, hands always pressed together in a praying pose. "Where did this happen?"

"In the lower levels. The place has got at least three cellars."

"And you're telling me you couldn't find _one_ access point to the sewers?"

Lestrade pulled an un-amused face at him. "Not one that anyone could easily get to, and with a dead body on their hands to boot."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let it go. Grateful for gesture, Lestrade went on to recount their search of the second flat. The rug from Gary's bedroom had been taken to the lab to be swabbed for DNA. Forensics checked the floor underneath the rug and found only a trace of dampness under Gary's desk, very likely from a spilled drink he cleaned up. Scratches on the floor did show that the wardrobe and the desk had been moved, but there was no further evidence to tell them who or why the carpet had been shifted. As for the hard drive on Gary's computer, it'd been taken to IT for examination. Lestrade would receive a report from them in the next few hours.

The DI was in the middle of wrapping up when John's phone started to vibrate. He dug it out and checked the screen. 'Sarah's Cell' yelled loud and clear in white text.

"Sorry, sorry," he announced as Sherlock's eyes snapped open and flipped toward him. "I'll just be a minute." John ducked out through the glass door, making sure to avoid Sherlock's gaze in the process, and clicked the button to accept the call. His heart made a small jump toward his throat, but he managed to keep his voice even-keel as he greeted Sarah with a sunny 'hello'.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything with you and your friend," she remarked half-teasingly after the typical salutations.

"Oh, no, not really. Just having a chat with the cops and whatnot. Nothing special."

She chuckled warmly, which made his head softly buzz. "Glad to hear that. I don't suppose that means you're free for the next four to six hours. Two of our physicians can't come in today."

John gave his watch a quick look-over. "I think I can manage it. In fact, count on it. I'll be over in about half an hour."

"Half an hour? You sure? I know Sherlock has a tendency to . . ."

Giving a comprehending sigh, John amended, "Yeah, better make it forty-five minutes. But I'll be there."

"Good. Catch you later. _Hopefully_."

John laughed with her. "Right." His body took turns heating up and cooling down as he hung up. How did Sarah still manage to do that to him? He _was_ over her, after all. Moved on. Free as a bird. It wasn't his fault she was still attractive, smart and enjoyable to be around.

After he got over the physical fluctuations that accompanied his excitement and relief from talking with Sarah, John could sense someone's gaze barrelling down at him. That someone, of course, was Sherlock. But John also knew Sherlock wasn't actually looking at him even before he returned to the office. The detective held his position in his seat, facing Lestrade and knitting his hands in contemplation. In his mind, though, he was stabbing John with an icicle glare, and John knew it as much as he knew that the Earth orbited the Sun.

There was no point offering an explanation in Lestrade's presence, as it would only further foul up the consulting detective's mood, and he preferred to be in a 'brain-work' state of mind for at least a few more minutes. John's decision appeared to be the right one. Sherlock did not enquire about, or rather bring up, the phone call until they were back outside. The rain returned, but it had nowhere near the force of the downpour they endured earlier. John didn't even bother trying to cover his head. The light drizzle was brisk refreshment.

"You can go if you feel you must," Sherlock said waspishly as soon as they were out the door of the Yard's stately headquarters.

John started at the declaration, even though he shouldn't have been surprised. Maybe it surprised him that Sherlock was actually letting him off the hook. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock replied with a frown, still not looking directly at his friend. With a type of magic John still hadn't grasped or been able to put into practice, Sherlock hailed down another cab within seconds. This time, after John crawled in and settled in his normal seat, the door slammed behind him. Sherlock gave the cabbie, in a gruff voice, the address for the surgery, and that was the end of it. John rolled his eyes. As the cab pulled away, he turned and spied Sherlock out the back window. A weighty scowl burdened the whippet-thin man's forehead. He yanked up the collar of his coat around his face, as if he was aware that John was still watching him and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing his full reaction. John snorted and turned back round in his seat. Brilliant and fascinating as he was, Sherlock needed to get it into his head that, contrary to what he felt and in congruence with the science he refused to remember, the universe did not revolve around him.

The ride to the surgery loaned John enough time to shed any discomfort about leaving Sherlock to his own devices. When he crossed the threshold and met the familiar smells of squeaky linoleum floors, starch-laced white coats and that peculiar lemon air freshener the staff favoured, he felt like Doctor Watson again. Albeit Doctor Watson, substitute physician, but still a doctor. He signed in at the front desk with Sarah, giving her a smirk that tried to hide the fact he'd been thinking about her more than he should, given their 'return to friendship' status. She mirrored his grin and sent him to his office.

The hours leaked away as patients filed in and out. Thank God Sherlock wasn't on a case that had kept John up into the night. As it was a benefit for the patients that he was awake enough to see them, it was also a joy for John being in his element. Not that it wasn't fun to run around London in Sherlock's wake, basking in his friend's incredible intellect and solving cases – it satiated the soldier's need for excitement and his desire to protect and save people. He needed this, too, though – the security of working inside four walls, the less thrill-filled mysteries of disease and other medical problems, and his on-hand store of instruments. There was nothing wrong with wanting a little security now and then, right?

_Dull_, grumbled the imaginary Sherlock that had taken almost permanent residence in his mind.

_Shut up_, John grumbled back.

Time passed a bit too quickly for his taste. It was already approaching dark when John's shift came to an end. He checked his watch several times a minute to make sure he was reading the numbers correctly. The reduction in sunlight coming in through the office window should have told him enough, but he still declined from believing it until Sarah popped by.

"You still here?" She tilted her head at him as half of her body floated in the doorway. "You're free to go, you know."

John looked up from the desk, head feeling fizzy with slight embarrassment at being caught after hours. "Yeah, sorry. I was just savouring the quiet."

Sarah smiled and stepped fully into view. "You mean, the inevitable fact that you have to eventually go home to Sherlock?"

"Not exactly." John leaned back in his chair, wishing he was telling the truth. "It's not inevitable. I could camp out here tonight. A few pillows from upstairs, a few sheets or scrubs and I'm all set. I've slept under worse conditions. Or maybe I could spend the night at your place."

"Hah hah," Sarah rejoined dryly. "You've tried that line already, remember? Are you really that desperate?"

"Nah. Sherlock is on a case now, though." Acknowledging that further delay would be an exercise in futility, John pushed his oddly heavy body out of the chair, straightened his clothes and went to grab his coat. "And I'm sure, when I get back, he'll either give me the silent treatment or spend the whole time rambling to himself."

"Goody. Sounds like a fun-filled evening." Sarah leaned on the left-hand jamb, arms folded and eyes locked on John. When he glimpsed back at her, slipping his hands through the sleeves of his coat as he did, he noticed she seemed to be considering something. She nibbled on her lower lip even while she let her eyes dart away from him toward the opposite wall, which featured an endearing poster of a Yorkshire terrier pup with huge sad eyes and the words 'Sick As A Dog' underscoring the photo.

"Something up?" he asked. He also turned toward the poster and snickered. He forgot that'd been hanging behind his head whenever he sat down.

Sarah held off for a few extra seconds, still punishing in the inside of her lip in a way that John was finding too interesting. "Well, speaking of fun-filled evenings . . . the thing is, my birthday's coming up . . ."

"Oh, yeah! I meant to ask you about it. It's this week, right?"

She nodded and gave an affirmative 'mm-hmm'. A finger pushed some auburn hair behind her ear. "My mum was supposed to come down this week, but a pipe burst and her entire store got flooded, so that's not happening. We were supposed to go to a show tomorrow night, so now I have this extra ticket just going to waste. I tried to get one of my friends to come, but they're tied up, too. So, basically, I was wondering if . . . you might like to go to the show with me. Just as friends, obviously. You don't have to – I mean, don't feel obligated to go if that's not your thing. I'm fine with seeing it all by my lonesome self, then going to dinner later alone, drowning in champagne and wishing myself a happy birthday . . ."

John couldn't hold in the barrels of laughter from listening to her droll sarcasm. "Are you really so desperate?" he joshed. He let go of the zipper without closing the jacket, showing that he wasn't in a hurry to leave just yet.

"You could say that," said Sarah with a shrug. "But, really, if you don't want to . . ."

"No! I mean, sure, I'll go with you. I'd love to."

She pointed an eyebrow at him. "Really?"

John lifted his hands, still keeping them in his coat pockets. "Why not? I could use a night out that's just for fun." He was pretty eager for it, actually. When there weren't any cases and the mood seized him, Sherlock chose to frequent music halls. John could enjoy those to a point. It was because of them he'd learned more about Classical and Romantic composers and modes and styles than he'd ever cared to know. His limited exposure to older music in school had encouraged him to try to engage Sherlock in conversation, but it quickly spiralled out of John's realm of experience and comprehension. It put him off not because Sherlock's musical intelligence made him look dense in comparison – he had his deductive powers for that – but because John could catch the veiled disappointment in his friend's face when there was a breach in understanding. That didn't stop Sherlock from trying to educate John, of course, but what should have been an enjoyable discussion turned into a lecture. It'd be nice if, just once, they could find a common interest in which they were nearly intellectual equals.

Better yet, John would have appreciated an outing that didn't test his IQ 99.9% of the time. He needed to kick back more when he wasn't working.

"Fantastic!" Sarah's brightened expression at his accepting her invitation warmed John up even more. He was already looking forward to tomorrow night – so much so, in fact, that he failed to ask her what show they were seeing until both of them stepped out the door of the clinic.

"Oh! So, what _are_ we seeing? Or do you want it to be a surprise?"

Sarah paused in her walk and sucked in a breath through her teeth. She winced a little. "I guess I should have said what it was before asking you."

John's stomach dropped a few centimetres. "Is it racy?" He wasn't sure whether to be worried or intrigued.

"Sort of depends on your politics. It's _Priscilla, Queen of the Desert_."

John widened his eyes. His stomach dropped all the way to his feet. Oh, no. Oh, God. "You mean . . . that show at the Palace Theatre? The one with the giant shoe out front, covered in glitter?"

She nodded and winced again. "Not your thing?"

A million thoughts rushed around and crowded John's mind like the late-afternoon London traffic. First of all, _Priscilla_ was definitely _not_ his kind of show, with all due deference to political correctness. That wasn't his biggest concern, though. What worried him was he hadn't told Sarah about the murder, and she probably hadn't heard about it yet since she didn't bring it up. The media was still treating Gary's death as the result of a mugging, so she would've had no reason to be all that anxious or suspicious. Should he let her in on what he knew, or would that only worry her? No, Sarah had a strong stomach. She could handle it. What might've become a problem was the possibility that Sherlock, if he found out, would try to crash their date. Again. John clenched his teeth as he considered this. If he did tell Sarah about the case, she might take back her offer in anticipation of Sherlock's interference.

He unclenched his jaw and sighed. He would probably regret it, but things were going to go _his_ way this time. "It's fine," he said to Sarah, trying to sound confident and enthusiastic. "I've never seen the show, so I can't judge anything about it."

"I hear it's a lot of fun," Sarah assured him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. She employed the same tone for when she explained a treatment plan to a patient. "Sixties music, colourful costumes, massive sets . . ."

_Rampant, flamboyant homosexuality, _John filled in for her. He pushed his face into a grin. "Sounds great. What time do you want to meet?"

* * *

A blanket of black cotton balls covered the sky when John stepped out of the cab. The lamp near the door threw light on its '221B' plaque, making it shine like a beacon in the evening gloom. John went over the details of his date – wait, no, 'date' wasn't the right word . . . 'outing'. He went over the details of his outing with Sarah tomorrow night as he unlocked the old door and stepped inside the foyer. He approached the steps but didn't go up right away. John set his jaw and renewed his resolve. Sarah still didn't know about the case or the murder, and he was going to do his best not to let Sherlock know about his date. No, 'outing'. John had till tomorrow to think of something to tell him when he went out. Right now, though, he felt enough tension in his muscles that Sherlock would surely notice something was awry. Couldn't let him deduce the truth out of him, could he?

Lucky for him, in a peculiar way, Mrs Hudson headed out for shopping half a moment after John came in. Of course she stopped to chat and ask him what he'd been up to and how he was fairing with the new case. It stunned John a little that Mrs Hudson had a pretty sharp intuition about when Sherlock was or wasn't on a case. That is, until he realised that she had long ago picked up on the telltale signs of Sherlock's anti-boredom tactics. Loud noises and vandalism of her rooms were the two primary ones.

"Is it the one with the theatre manager? The papers say it was a mugging. Oh, I'll bet Sherlock made them say that so the killer wouldn't be on edge. Glad to know he's in better spirits now that he's got this on his plate. You should go on up, dear. I've been hearing him pacing and moving things about all afternoon. Sounds like he's up to something."

John scratched his cheek as he wondered about what his friend had in store for him. "When did he get back?"

"About three hours ago. Hasn't been back out since. He was playing on that violin of his at one point, but that stopped about half an hour ago. The _sounds_ he makes with that thing sometimes!" Mrs Hudson shook her head and tittered. "I like it when you're with him when he plays – it sounds so much better."

John broke into a grin. There'd been a few incidents when John asked – more like begged – Sherlock to play something more harmonious if he was going to play at all. Sherlock complied with his request with surprisingly little resistance. The first time John heard him perform one of Chopin's violin sonatas, it'd been a revelation. When Sherlock wasn't purposefully playing pieces with the oddest styles and melodies that more closely resembled machinery or bird calls than any music John had ever heard, he was magnificent. The man could have been a world-famous concert violinist if he'd wanted to. The pieces he chose even just for John's enjoyment ranged according to his mood. Sometimes he played with a brightness and gusto that could make a curmudgeon want to dance. Other times he emoted a melancholy suited for a foggy moor or a drenched churchyard. When he was at his best, his performance was sublime regardless of tone. Why couldn't he showcase his talent in more conventional ways rather than make sore ears throughout the neighbourhood?

After Mrs Hudson departed, John made the upward trek to the flat. All thoughts of Sarah and the show were locked away. Even if he hadn't banished them before opening the door, he wouldn't have been capable of dwelling on Sarah or anything else once he laid eyes on what Sherlock had sprawled across the entire floor of their shared space.

"Took you long enough." Sherlock was perched on the back of the sofa, feet on the cushions and hands conjoined as he meditated above his creation. It took John well over the ten seconds he spent counting so as not to explode in incredulous outrage to guess what he was staring at. It was a model of something, obviously. Probably a building, but it was hard to tell which building right away because its outer walls were missing. It reminded him slightly of the Coliseum, but Sherlock wouldn't have a reason to build a model of an ancient Roman ruin out of brown cardboard. John soon noticed that the insides of the model were labelled via strips of paper covered in Sherlock's handwriting. He eyed little bits of code like NH1, SSW2 and SSC4. The entire structure extended from the foot of the sofa to the edge of the hearth of the still-ashy fireplace. Width-wise it nearly blocked the doorway into the kitchen and left all but two-thirds of a foot of space between it and the table underneath the buffalo skull. The structure stood up to the middle of John's chest.

"You built this in three hours?"

"I know – it has its shortcomings," remarked Sherlock in monotone. "But it has the proper dimensions which are sufficient to my purposes."

Another look-over informed John that the rooms and corridors inside the small building were familiar to him. The answer dawned on him when he circled to the other side – squeezing himself with difficulty between the model and their table, which had been pushed laterally against the wall – and realised that the large space at one end was an auditorium.

John gasped as his eyes constructed an imaginary facade of red brick around the structure. "It's the Palace Theatre!"

"It's a _model_ of the Palace Theatre," his friend corrected him with a wag of his finger, "and a rudimentary one at that."

"You're too modest."

"Not at all. I only needed the necessary dimensions to better assess its inner workings and how an individual may project the identity of a 'ghost' on other people without being seen."

Still chuckling and impressed, John took a closer peek at the seven levels, including the cellars, Sherlock managed to craft out of what must have once been storage boxes. They lacked the decorative aspects of the real theatre, but those were obviously not important for Sherlock's needs. The interweaving hallways did reflect its complex setup. John found it difficult to blame Lestrade for his lack of success in searching for an entrance into the sewers. He could barely make sense of the labyrinth even with a holistic view of it.

"How did you remember all this?" John looked at his flatmate with slack-jaw wonderment. Sherlock didn't bother to give it attention. He continued to rivet his gaze on the cardboard model. John kept asking, anyway, too inquisitive to be deterred. "I didn't think even you could store all that in your brain."

"Table," came the abrupt explanation.

After blinking at this vague answer, John wriggled and writhed between chairs back toward the living room table. As he clambered over Sherlock's comfy chair, John spotted several large sheets on the tabletop. Closer inspection revealed them to be blueprints of the same building. That was it. Sherlock had got his hands on the theatre's blueprints and created a three-dimensional model from there to help him work out the puzzle of the ghost.

"I see." John then shifted around. His face morphed into a scowl of confusion. "You were at the theatre, then. But why focus on this part of the case? It doesn't have any direct relationship to Gary's murder, does it? Or have you found something?"

"My solitary visit today," Sherlock elaborated, putting special emphasis on the word 'solitary', "made me realise a few important things. I'm not so convinced now that someone needed a key to get into the theatre to murder Gary. The killers could have easily hidden anywhere in the building and waited for the cleaning staff to depart before making their assault. Yet that doesn't explain how the door to Gary's office was locked when Nadir Khan went to clean it the next morning. It's possible they used the key on Gary's ring to lock it after taking his body out. There's not enough evidence to determine if they did so or not."

John acknowledged this new analysis with a solemn nod. "That doesn't help us much. It only widens the field of suspects."

Sherlock deigned to flick his eyes over to John, though his head remained still as a cliff. "Not by much. Our murderers needed to have a thorough knowledge of the theatre and familiarity with the routines of Gary and the house management staff. The murderers, or at least one of them, must have been in the theatre a number of times running reconnaissance in order to do the job properly."

"Or it could have been one of the staff," John reminded him.

Long white fingers tapped against each other in front of Sherlock's mouth. His eyes went back to the miniature replica. "Any of the staff, including the ones on duty that night, would have had opportunity to commit the crime. Motive is an entirely different question. I told Lestrade to run background checks on all of them as well, in case something of use might spring up. It's a start."

"What about Gary's own history?" John once more crushed himself against the table in order to slide by the model without disturbing it. "Were there any specific details that could lead us to his killers?"

Sherlock shook his head and propped his chin on his hands. "He had accrued some debt on numerous occasions and paid them back with the aid of some unidentifiable source. Most of his financial transactions in that regard trace back to the firm at which he worked. That will be the next thing we examine after tonight."

John was in the middle of taking off his coat as Sherlock made his last statement. He shot his friend a wary look. "Tonight? What do you mean?"

The young detective leapt into the air like a nimble flightless bird, elbows extended outward as he flew up and then landed on his feet. "Why else do you think I wasted my time on this ridiculous model? I wasn't going to commit a break-in without my faithful partner-in-crime."

The grin on Sherlock's face only made the dread in John's stomach rise. "You have _got _to be kidding me!"

Protests were shooed away like flies. Sherlock's fierce hands seized the shoulders of John's coat and forced the garment back on him. "Onward and upward, doctor! No complaints. You have your gun with you, yes?"

John let out a loud groan, disregarding Sherlock's recent command. "It's upstairs. Bloody hell, Sherlock—"

"Just as a safety measure. Considering this _is_ Gary's flat we're going to, you can never be sure about who will show up with similar intentions. It's best to be armed."

"Then bring your own gun!" shouted John as he jogged up to his room.

"Not if I'm the one breaking the window!"

John growled and put their argument on hold while he hunted down his pistol. They didn't need to share this conversation with the whole city.


	15. The Second Residence Revisited

Darn it! I wanted to get this in on Halloween (making it slightly more than 3 months since my last update - whoops). Oh, well. It's still All Souls' Days, I think. Or All Saints'. Still okay, I guess. Enjoy!

UPDATE: Parts 1 and 2 now compiled into one chapter, just like with "Walking on Piano Keys".

* * *

Chapter 14: The Second Residence Revisited

"Mind telling me how you came by those blueprints?" John asked after the cab dropped them by the Phoenix Theatre. He followed his companion toward New Compton Street as he spoke. Sherlock had kept obstinately silent on the matter until they were well out of the cabby's earshot. His paranoia was reaching new peaks if Sherlock thought the driver might be in the secret employ of Lestrade or, worse, Mycroft. John made no comment about it, though. When it came to Mycroft, it wasn't an unreasonable precaution. Yet John couldn't imagine why, as of now, the case would be of any interest to the elder Holmes brother.

"I met the new managers," said Sherlock. "A pair of exceptional idiots. No real surprise considering what happened to the last competent man in their post. They were assigned by the company that owns the theatre and were sent there today. They seemed put-out at my poking around; I came _this_ close to calling in Lestrade. And I assumed too quickly they had any knowledge of the theatre's blueprints or their whereabouts. Do you remember what Gabriel told us about them going 'missing'?"

John shrugged. That may have been just another myth of the theatre. Maybe the ghost was such a powerful legend that it extended to more mundane things like misplaced blueprints. "But they _did_ have them, obviously." 'Did' and not 'do', considering the papers were still lying idly on the table in the flat.

"No," Sherlock answered in a limp, bordering on disappointed tone. "Not the originals. They explained that Gary was supposed to send the original blueprints and the revised, post-renovation ones to the company's headquarters. Only the revised blueprints were received. When his bosses enquired about the originals, Gary claimed they could not be found. They continued harassing him for a few years until finally giving up. The building inspector they hired to verify the changes reported that everything checked out. It seems, then, that these altered blueprints are in fact reliable."

"I see," said John, taking care to sidestep a large puddle in his path. "I wish I'd been there. I can't imagine what you said to convince them to give you their only set of blueprints!"

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, but otherwise he kept their walking speed steady. "They didn't give them to me. I pinched them."

Rubber soles ground against wet asphalt. "You did _what?_" The sharp squeak in John's voice betrayed his dwindling tolerance for Sherlock's revelations. He also cracked on the last word. "You . . . you _stole_ blueprints from a major theatre _and _its corporate owners?"

"I had no other choice." Sherlock's posture and gait remained unaffected by this knowledge. Even when he stopped, he waited in a relaxed stance for John to catch up to him, his shoulders low and his arms hanging like a pair of dead, strung-up eels. Life returned to his muscles only when he began walking again. "They won't notice for a few days. They have no reason to suspect that I worked out where the blueprints were kept." After a dense pause, in which John glared at him like an offended puppy, Sherlock tacked on, "I'll send them back tomorrow."

"Please do."

A weak but chilly breeze stirred up around them. John groaned and felt a rush of cold dance along the circuits of his nervous system. In another minute they met the end of the alley and came face to face with the now much darker and less inviting Phoenix Garden. Its iron, spiked fence stood out in the tangerine light from the street lamps like an army of black lances held by invisible sentinels. The recent rain left dew on the metal, making the light reflect more starkly. Even so, a puff of mist passed through the neighbourhood and reduced visibility.

The setting made John less and less enthused about this venture. It wasn't as if it was the middle of the night, which would have been a more sensible timeframe in which to commit what was, in all honesty, a crime. A crime in the name of justice, but a crime just the same. John didn't want to initiate a row over the ethical implications of their intent, but safety and discretion were still important factors to consider. His watch read 9:03 PM.

"Isn't it a bit on the early side?" John turned down the volume of his voice. "Why don't we wait and get something to eat first? The less people awake to notice us, the better."

"_Fewer_ people," said Sherlock. "And waiting won't make much difference. We'll be fine."

Instead of heading directly toward the flats on New Compton Street, Sherlock veered to the left along the garden fence, keeping his head bowed and his eyes watchful of their surroundings. The mist started to cling to John's neck. He pulled up his collar and zipped up his jacket further. If the hour didn't seem late enough, at least the weather did its job of keeping the normal congestion of people to a minimum. After several minutes of assessing their surroundings, Sherlock quickened his walk a little and arrested his attention on the fence. He didn't come to a stop until they were well down Stacey Street and the whole of the Phoenix Garden stood between them and the New Compton Street flats.

"John," said Sherlock, half-whispering, "check the street over there between those buildings. Make certain no one is coming."

With an obeying nod, John lightly jogged to the gap. It stood a ways to the right of the archway he and Sherlock had passed through yesterday and had found the telltale manhole. The gap in question was actually Flitcroft Street after it intersected with Stacey Street, though the street was so narrow John doubted many vehicles passed through it. For some reason, the way was blocked by a pair of aluminium gates. John clambered over them without much difficulty, but the action made him worried about drawing attention. He aligned himself with the brick wall on his left and watched the lane that opened into the plaza of St Giles-in-the-Fields. Only the occasional passer-by crossed his line of vision as John kept watch for a minute.

Feeling he'd done his part, he looked back to check on Sherlock. He stared through the iron bars into Stacey Street but saw no one. The familiar, lean, looming figure in the sweeping overcoat had vanished. John's heart bounced around like a rubber ball. He went back to the intersection, overcoming the gates again, and kept his ears open for Sherlock or anyone who might come up the street or out of the covered alley. Every sense was on full alert.

"Sherlock?" John lowered his voice to a full but still audible whisper. "Sherlock!"

"John!" called the expected voice from behind the fence, buried somewhere in the dense black ferns. "Get in here already!"

John jogged toward the voice and rustling leaves and took hold of the bars. In an instant Sherlock's face, orange like everything else in the lamplight, popped into view, wide-eyed and scowling. "Climb over, quick!"

John scoffed, remembering the spikes at the top. "Climb over? Are you crazy? I'd like to keep my balls intact, thank you."

"You're telling me you've never had to climb spiked fences in all your time in the army?" Sherlock hissed. He was fighting to keep his voice down. "They're really going lax in their training regime!"

"I got shot, remember?" John hissed back. He scanned the fence and shook the bars. "Isn't there a loose one we could pull out?"

"That would be awfully convenient, wouldn't it?"Sherlock snickered at what was apparently an idiotic notion.

John gritted his teeth and walked a few metres, testing each bar as he went.

"Just climb over, John! You'll get noticed if you keep doing that!"

"Hang on!" One bar did, in fact, jiggle under John's hand. He wrenched it and twisted it with all his might, but it wouldn't come out of place. His forehead started to moisten with more than mist as he wrestled with the taunting bar. He might have given up sooner had the thought of making the treacherous straddle over sharpened iron not occupied his mind, or the fact that Sherlock chose to neglect his physical limitations in this situation, as usual. His determination was strong enough that he actually started to believe the bar was bending away from him, little by little.

"I think I almost have it." John grunted and snarled, careful not to bite his lip or tongue. "Just a . . . little more . . ."

Something suddenly tapped him on the head. John tossed his head back and nearly pulled a muscle. He saw Sherlock standing above him, feet on the lower horizontal bar of the fence and hands around the uninviting spikes.

"Get up here," he ordered. As cross as Sherlock looked, John thought he noticed just a twinkle of amusement in the irises at his vain use of brute force.

John resigned from the battle with the bar and hoisted himself onto the brick wall that anchored the fence. He took both of Sherlock's hands and, at the same time, placed his foot on the horizontal bar. John nearly got the wind knocked out of him as Sherlock hauled him upward with hardly any effort, or so it felt. How could a man so skinny be so strong? If there was an answer, John's medical mind didn't have time to find it. The momentum Sherlock had lent him forced John to be quick in his movements over the top of the fence. His friend had the courtesy to guide his legs on the other side before he dropped to the ground. Once completely over and certain that nothing had been damaged, John dropped down as well.

Sneaking across the Phoenix Garden, according to Sherlock, was the easy part. He was a little right, in that they had bushes and trees to mask their movements. The not-so-easy part was not stepping on sticks or conspicuously disturbing the flora. They were leaving a trail for the grounds keeper to find the next morning, but Sherlock assured him that was the least of their worries. The only other problem was the presence of pollen. Many times the tart scent of mulch and the itch of tiny pollen particles nearly made John explode into sneezes. He had to stand still a few times just to contain the impending eruptions and squeeze his nose shut. He thought he might blow his ears out from all the sneezes he held in. Sherlock made no comment about it. He waited until after they arrived to the other side and jumped the fence again to hand John a facial tissue. John thanked him and blew his nose as quietly as possible.

Where they touched down was about a metre off the ground from where they had begun. Their shortcut through the garden brought them to an enclosed platform that separated the yard behind the building from the lane connecting to New Compton Street. It placed them on-level with several doors and windows attached to what were likely stairwells and individual flats. When they stood up, John's eyes went to the open area down below where a few cars stood at rest. There was also a little park shaded by tall oaks that were just beginning to regain their leaves. Already John was starting to grasp the scale of their mission. He hadn't really observed before how large the building was, but the space allotted to its residents, and the fact that he could see the other half of the complex, bending towards them like the other half of a bowtie, far off the in darkness hinted for him the scale of the place. So many people present, regardless of whether they were still awake. And lights burned in most of the windows.

"This is a bad idea," he whispered to Sherlock even as they walked along the elevated walkway. "We should have waited."

"It'll be fine," Sherlock repeated, sounding only half-aware of what John said. He was more interested in the assortment of entryways they had to choose from. John assumed Sherlock would favour the usual approach of picking the lock on one of the doors. That was why he nearly bumped into him when Sherlock stopped in front of a darkened window.

"This one."

A large hand disappeared inside his coat and reappeared with a black case, which Sherlock zipped open to reveal an array of tools, only some of which John could identify. The one Sherlock first selected looked like a scalpel, only bigger and wider. Sherlock slipped the slim blade into the edges of the storm window until it loosened. Sharp clicks signalled the metal frame's liberation from its locked position. Sherlock threw it up and went to work on the wooden pane. "Keep a look out," he reminded John as he exchanged the scalpel for another tool John couldn't quite discern in the dim light.

John kept his steps light as he moved up and down the concrete platform for any sign of witnesses. He dismissed whatever moral anxiety crept into his brain and focused on the more relevant concern of being caught. At one point, a shape did come their way, and John hissed a warning to Sherlock. They both crouched down and watched a woman cross the parking lot to her car. John instantly realised that the lights would come on when she started the car, and they might be illuminated.

"John, stand up," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"Stand up next to the fence. Pretend we're chatting."

John blinked and flapped his mouth at the bizarre suggestion, but he got up, anyway. His body felt stiff under the strain of possible discovery. Sherlock unfurled himself from the ground and leaned against the fence, looking oddly at ease. "Relax, John. We're just having a chat."

"She'll see us," John answered in as level a voice he could manage.

"That's right." The detective rubbed his hand together. A cloud of warm air left his lips like smoke from a dragon's mouth.

"Isn't that not good?"

"Just because she'll see us doesn't mean she'll notice us." Sherlock turned his eyes downward and picked at the peeling paint on the railing. "She's on her phone, for one. She'll be as aware of our presence as a drunk."

John raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that a stretch?"

"Not at all. Talking on the phone has the same effect as having a 0.08 blood/alcohol level when one is driving a car. I imagine the statistic is applicable to other situations, too."

John let his mouth open into a half-smile as he chuckled. He tried to unwind as Sherlock suggested, but the cold was getting to him along with the moisture. He took out the facial tissue and wiped his nose again.

"Don't touch it directly," Sherlock said.

"I know," said John with another raised eyebrow.

"I mean, don't touch it, or you might leave DNA residue in the flat. Lestrade might bring the forensics circus back a second time if they cannot pick up something from the rug."

John folded the tissue. "Do you think they won't?"

"It might not be enough. That's one thing we need to look for tonight."

"Right." John tucked the dirty napkin away. "Speaking of which, what _are_ we doing here? What more information do we need that would be here?"

"_Everything._" A flash from the car's headlights hit Sherlock's eyes as he turned them up to John. His eager and focused expression also came into view very suddenly. John flinched at the sight. "We have _everything_ of importance to learn about Gary. The police won't be thorough enough. Not in the way I need to be. We cannot afford to overlook any detail, however small."

John looked askance to see the woman and her car rumble past them and the building to what must have been the exit on the other side, well out of their sights.

No words were wasted. Sherlock returned to the window while John returned to his vigil. A minute later John heard a hearty click following by wood moving against wood. He turned to Sherlock. The window hung wide open for them.

"They're out only for the evening," said Sherlock. "We have to be fast."

He threw one long leg through the opening and supposedly got his foot down the other side. He gestured to John to hold him up while his other leg went through. Once his long body was in, Sherlock instructed John to climb through head-first. John once again placed his weight into Sherlock's capable arms, and the latter pulled the former inside within a few seconds. Aside from mussed clothes, they were still in good shape. Sherlock shut the storm window and wooden pane after them, and the pair made right for the front door of the flat, taking care not to trip on the woven rug or the low coffee table. John understood that getting upstairs to Gary's flat was more important than asking Sherlock how he knew the people living there were out just for the night.

After checking through the peephole, Sherlock opened the door with care. The soft luminescence of the yellow lights on the ceiling gave the place a warmer pallor than the eerie streetlamps outside. After a quick ascent up three flights of stairs, John restocked on air when they came to the same floor as Gary's flat. Only, now that John thought about it, and if he remembered the front of the complex correctly, they were in the wrong stairwell. The door marked '6' also had a wooden board with the phrase 'Welcome!' inscribed on it in white ink. Gary's door, if John remembered rightly, had been bare.

"Uh, Sherlock? We're not the in right—"

"I know." Sherlock approached the door, knelt on the floor and pressed the side of his face to the emerald-green carpet. He jumped back up. "No good. They're having dinner."

Even if the people inside hadn't been having dinner, what would Sherlock have accomplished? It was still the wrong corridor, and John had no clue how far off they were.

"What now?" he muttered.

"Let's try the floor above." Sherlock brushed past John to get to the stairwell.

"Wait, what? Sherlock—"

"Come on!"

Another flight later the pair approached the door that corresponded with the flat below. When he lay down to look underneath, Sherlock gave a low "a-ha!" John felt a tingle of apprehension and awe as his flatmate summoned the black zippered case again. This time Sherlock withdrew two long, thin bits of metal John had more familiarity with. In a way he was glad that he still didn't remember what they were called, which meant that Sherlock used them sparingly over the last year of their friendship.

A series of clicks and jiggles resulted in the lock giving way. Incandescent light spilled into the dark flat and outlined their silhouettes. A faint odour of elderly people and denture cream scented the space. No lights were on, and the only room within sight of the entrance, besides the sitting room and the kitchen, was the bedroom, and its door was shut. Sherlock didn't need to explain the situation. He merely pressed his index finger to his lips, which John responded with a nod. They tread as quietly as possible from the front door to a casement window on the opposite side of the living room, just like in Gary's flat. As they tiptoed, John took in the place. It looked absolutely like an old person's place – the faded upholstery on the sofa and chairs lining the wall, the quaint China plates mounted above them, the vast collection of family photographs, half in colour and half in brittle sepia – but given the person still lived independently and didn't leave a wheelchair or walker in plain sight, John hypothesized that they were in good physical condition for their age. The framed photos on the table beside the sofa, the bookshelf and the sideboard on the opposing wall had many people in them, including a recurring couple that had aged a ways in some pictures. Two people could have lived here, but John couldn't say with certainty. One of them now could've been a widow or widower.

Sherlock reached the casement window first, and without waiting for John he opened it and leaned out. After a few seconds he withdrew, letting John view the Phoenix Garden, now veiled in mist. It was nearly the same sight as seen in the window of Gary's flat, only at a slightly higher altitude.

His view was slightly obscured, however, by a very small balcony. The only way to get on it seemed to be through the window, which was very inconvenient, especially for an elderly couple. John was so wrapped up in the oddness of such an architecture feature that he almost let the obvious pass him by. He managed to grasp it when he looked into Sherlock's face. Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

John felt his nerves begin to fail him. "Oh, _no_."

"Oh, _yes._"

John made a quiet whimper, half-remembering that there were people sleeping very close by. "You don't really expect me to, do you?"

"Come now, John! If you can climb over a tall fence, you can certainly drop down from a balcony."

"Depends how good you are at landing."

Sherlock only smiled and threw his legs over the sill, which was of course no trouble for him given his height. A small gust teased his coat and scarf, but he paid it no mind as he then put each leg over the balcony railing. They were high enough above the street lamps that John doubted how well Sherlock could judge the distance and position of the balcony attached to Gary's flat – if there in fact was one! John didn't even recall checking for one, and he didn't remember Sherlock paying the window in the living area much mind. What if Sherlock was wrong? What if he jumped down before verifying that they was something a safe distance down to break his fall?

Before John could utter a word on any of these concerns, his friend dropped out of sight. Nearly a whole second passed before he heard a leather-to-concrete slap down below. His heart picked up speed again. John pushed himself out the window, grabbed the railing and looked down, frantic. He could barely see the lower balcony, considering they were parallel to one another, but he did spot a clothed arm wave up at him. However relieving and reassuring the signal was to John, the drop still seemed a far one.

John clenched his teeth for a few seconds, then put a leg over the railing. His head spun a bit as he gauged not only his distance above Gary's flat, but above the pavement. Or perhaps he'd get neatly impaled on the garden fence if he got the angle right. His callused fingers tightened around the railing. He might have needed another moment.

"Hey!" cried a hoarse, nicotine-lined voice from inside the flat. A shape moved into sight through the window, and as it approached the haze of the streetlamps cast a faint glow on a bent, robed body in brown wool slippers and a round bald head. The two sunken eyes remained shadowed, but John was pretty sure, as the figure got closer, that they were looking at him.

Looked like he didn't have a minute after all.

The man closing in on him wasn't unarmed. A metal cane came into view as the old bugger came near the window, holding it by the handle and wielding either like a teacher's pointer or a pistol. All the same, John knew his parasympathetic nervous system was kicking in. Fight or flight – those were the only terms he could think in at that moment.

"What do you think you're doing?" snarled the old man. Apparently he wasn't quite in panic mode yet. His voice, though surely deteriorating from a long-term smoking habit, still held quite a bit of force behind it. A military veteran, perhaps? It certainly rattled John and reminded him of several drill sergeants from his training days.

As if to confirm this, the man put down his cane, reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a pistol. It blended in with the shadows, but John could sense its presence all too keenly.

"Get in here!" snapped the man. "Explain yourself!"

Well, whether his minute was up or not, John had his answer. He swallowed, said "Sorry!" as honestly as he could, and dropped down.

Metal clanged as John's hands grabbed hold of the edge of the balcony. His pulse raced with adrenaline as he realised just how moist his fingers were from sweat. His grip wouldn't hold out for very long. On top of that, he could only partially see the balcony directly below him, and he couldn't be sure of his aim for the drop. But there was no time for careful judgement. John could hear the old man angrily muttering to himself as he went back into his flat. He was most likely heading for his phone to call the police.

"John!" whispered Sherlock, though loud enough to hear three metres above. "Swing for it!"

So it had come down to nearly blind faith. John gulped some air and got his legs going, like he was back on the monkey bars at his school. Or at boot camp. Before going against every survival instinct, he sent up a half-formed prayer. It was a habit he'd not been able to quit, and up till now it hadn't done any harm. A more religious person would have argued the contrary, in fact, but that was a debate for another night.

One final swing, and then the release. Air rushed up around him, like he was going into a wind funnel that narrowed at his feet and made him feel he was getting thinner and thinner. Other than that, though, John experienced a remarkable freedom in his freefall. He'd felt this before once, during an airdrop. The difference of course had been the presence of a parachute. It'd been a longer fall, too, but a parachute would have been a comfort to have at that moment, even if it would've been utterly useless.

John took a nanosecond to brace himself for the crash and the shockwave of pain that would spike up in his feet and legs. That he had expected. What he forgot to expect was something a bit softer than a metal platform to help break his fall. He didn't exactly land _on_ Sherlock – more like landed right in front of him, bounced off the floor and tumbled into the taller man's torso and arms. Sherlock's slim physique didn't help matters. The presence of his body alone did help cushion the overall impact, but John's more compact form had the added advantage of momentum over Sherlock's stationary body. The end result was both of them falling against the wall and closed window of Gary's flat. The balcony groaned underneath them.

Feet burning and forehead throbbing from meeting Sherlock's sternum, John still winced more at hearing his friend's head knock against the wooden frame of the window and his back against the unforgiving bricks. Sherlock always seemed the more fragile one to him, and John knew how much damage he himself could take, so his scrapes and bruises were ignored for the sake of jumping up and hovering over Sherlock.

"You all right?"

Sherlock gasped loudly, then squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his head. "Fine. Good landing."

John winced again. He hadn't realised that he'd knocked the wind out of Sherlock's lungs, on top of everything else. Still, however much pain he was in, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and took his turn at being concerned. He put a hand on John's left shoulder and scanned him over while anxiously grimacing. "Did he hit you?"

"No, no," said John, waving a hand. "Warning shot. But he's gone to call the police. We should get out of here."

"Never mind the police," said Sherlock. He set himself to work on the window. There was hardly anything keeping it shut since it was the second storey and not many people had the incentive to burgle anyone's flat from this entry point. But many people weren't Sherlock Holmes, either. And, to be fair, they weren't planning to burgle anything. As far as John knew.

The solitary latch was released from the hook. The window's hinges squeaked as Sherlock pushed them open. Sherlock once again reminded John to leave as little evidence of their presence as possible. This new enthusiasm for caution slowed their progress in getting inside and tiptoeing about the flat, but Sherlock already seemed to know where to start looking. He headed for the bedroom.

"Take a good look at everything else," he said to John, not bothering to whisper anymore. "Anything that could suggest who else has been here, make note of it."

It was hard to tread quietly when John's ankles keep buckling from the strain of his graceful landing. The darkness didn't help, either. How was he supposed to find anything? Almost as soon as he began to wonder this, a circle of light popped up on the wall in front of him, hovering like a giant firefly above the TV.

"John." Sherlock's voice commanded him to turn around. When he did, his friend tossed him a small black object, cool and long and easy to tuck into one's jacket pocket. A torch. John sighed and nodded to Sherlock before clicking it on and putting it to use.

Nothing of consequence stood out to John as he inspected the living area and the kitchen. He wasn't even sure what he should be looking out for. Footprints? A hairpin? A facial tissue that didn't make it into the bin? Well, he could begin by looking for anything that didn't seem to belong in a bachelor's flat. The chances of that, though, seemed slim. They'd been here before, as had forensics. There couldn't be much that they'd all failed to see before now. Everything looked much the same as they had left it, too, with the supposed exception of the rug in Gary's bedroom.

"Found anything?" Sherlock called.

"Nope."

"Then come in here. You have to see this!"

The nerves in his fingers and scalp tingled at these words. Still trying to walk quietly, John went to the bedroom and observed Sherlock on his knees partway under the desk. The chair had been pulled away to stand by its lonesome self near the window. Sherlock popped his head back up. He was as eager as a ferret that had just found another animal's secret cache of food. "I told you there was a reason the rug was moved!"

John angled his head, just to see if he could spot what Sherlock spotted without getting on his hands and knees himself. "Didn't Lestrade say all they found was a wet spot?"

"Exactly!"

"What do you mean, 'exactly'? Maybe Gary accident dropped a glass of water or something on that spot while he was working."

"That's why it's so brilliant." Sherlock's eyes glittered with stray light from John's still switched-on torch. "None of those idiots thought more of it beyond that. I bet the rug was damp, too, to throw them off."

Sherlock didn't bother to continue his explanation. He left John to simply watch as he took out a Swiss army knife, selected the thinnest blade and scratched away at one of the slits between panels in the floor. John cringed. "Sherlock, what are you . . . if the police come and see you damaging someone else's floor . . ."

"Stop worrying, John! He's dead, anyway. He's not going to care."

John fought the pang of offense in his chest. "But—"

"Aha!" With a wooden creak, the board came up at the persuasion of the blade. The board was just short of a foot long and almost reached the wall behind the desk. Particles of saw dust mushroomed from underneath the plank and left a light brown powder John could just barely see in the dark.

"How did you know it was loose?"

"The rug, John." Sherlock was beginning to bite his words with impatience. "Whoever moved the rug did it with a purpose. If you remember the positions of the indents from the furniture . . ."

Sherlock stood and came up beside John and gestured widely with his hands, as if he were trying to magically transform the room back to the way it was before anyone – their mystery culprit and Lestrade's team – disrupted it. "The rug's left corner, which was under the wardrobe when we saw it, would have originally been under the desk, just touching the inside of the left front leg. Do you see it now?"

John stepped toward the desk and blinked until he could create the same image Sherlock saw in his mind. When he finally did, he could also see another small piece in the larger puzzle click into place. "Gary kept the edge of the rug under the desk . . . so could he could lift it and have access to that plank."

Sherlock gave no congratulatory word; he was too excited for that. He chuckled deeply in his throat instead and returned to his position under the desk. He inserted one long arm into the secret slot.

"But the damp spot?" John asked. "How did you get a hidden compartment out of that?"

"Since the damp spot was the only thing remotely out of the ordinary, it made sense to check it out first. Once I did, it was a simple matter of figuring out why anyone would wipe up a spot _under_ a rug when there were no obvious stains on the rug."

"Okay. Why would they?"

"To get rid of _this_." Sherlock pointed to the ring of sawdust around the opening. "We're dealing with someone very detail-orientated."

"I can see that." John remembered with what particular attention the culprit cleaned up the crime scene and added a splash of alcohol to Gary's shirt. "But why was it still moist?"

"The person must have done taken what he wanted shortly before we came by."

"You mean, on the same day Gary's body was found?"

Sherlock poked his head back out. He was grinning. "Our conspirators have been very busy covering their tracks." He then held out a leather-bound book toward John. Its spine showed bare patches from handling and use.

John raised his eyebrows at it. "What's that?"

"I have no idea."

"And why do you look so delighted at that fact?"

"Doesn't it make you wonder, John, that if they were trying so hard to cover their tracks, why they weren't willing to take this with them?"

"Maybe it's not important."

Sherlock pulled the book away and gently tossed it from one hand to the other. He paused to run his palm across its blank cover. "You think so?"

John tilted his head back and groaned. "_Sherlock_."

"Well, let's hang on to it." The detective handed the book back to John, this time shaking it, a sign for him to take. "There's something else in there."

John accepted the item with care. It didn't look _that_ old – it was a business notebook a lawyer might use. He wanted to know just much as Sherlock what lay between the covers, and at the same time enjoyed the anticipation. He managed to resist opening it while Sherlock remained on the floor. What Sherlock produced, however, changed matters a bit.

His friend wasn't quite as elated with his second discovery, but genuine puzzlement could be a good symptom to see in Sherlock. It meant his mind was already making analytical inquiries into how the object fit with every other clue they'd so far gleaned. The item in question was a small piece of paper. The shine and delicate quality of it made John think it was a receipt. It'd been crumpled at one point but since flattened out. When John asked about it, Sherlock handed it to him without a word.

John cast the light of the torch on the piece of paper and skimmed it over until a phrase jumped out at him: 'THEATRE MASK CUFFLINKS'. It was the receipt for Gary's cufflinks. The receipt also said that the purchase had been made in cash. And the cufflinks weren't exactly cheap. They must have had real gold in them.

"This was just lying in there?" John asked.

"So it seems." Even Sherlock didn't sound satisfied with his own response.

"But how did Gary get a hold of it? And why? And why hide it in his floor?"

Silence hung over them. The two men looked at one another. A whole five seconds passed before both of their eyes widened and lit up with comprehension. John threw open the book. Sherlock grabbed one cover, considering only afterward to be careful with it.

Page after page was filled with columns and words and numbers. Inscrutable checkmarks freckled them, too, mostly next to names that at first held no meaning. Not until Sherlock stabbed his finger somewhere around the sixth page.

"Rory Campbell's name is in here! And Jacob Jacomo! And Bill Flynn!"

John looked at Sherlock askance. "Friends of yours?"

"John!" Sherlock snatched the book and slammed it shut. "These are some of the most feared lowlifes in London's underworld! They run errands for the most powerful criminal organisations in the country!"

Key words like 'underworld', 'most feared', 'criminal' and 'organisation' made all speech stop up in John's throat. He stammered a few times before he finally spat out: "You're serious?"

"Yes! And to find this is Gary's flat . . . of course! He used to be a clerk. A bookie. Recording numbers and balancing accounts." Sherlock bared in his teeth in a tense, unsettling grin and held up the book. "This is a ledger."

"Why wouldn't he have that information on his computer?" asked John. As clever as the hidden compartment was, the fact they'd found it presented a security issue for what now had to be considered a goldmine of information.

"He might," Sherlock acknowledged. "On the other hand, he keeps a strongbox of money inside his mattress. Didn't trust banks, apparently. And a hard copy would provide him with sole access to that information should anything happen to his computer files. Cyber crime is a growing field, after all."

John still had to shake his head. "You said yourself, though: why wouldn't someone who knew this book was here take it? With the police snooping around—"

"But the police didn't find it," Sherlock pointed out.

"All right, with the police _and us_ snooping around, someone was bound to lay hands on it. It doesn't make sense, then, to go through all this effort just to leave it behind."

"You're right." Sherlock was staring off into space as he spoke. A return to serious puzzling. "It doesn't make sense when you look at it _that_ way."

"How _would _it make sense?"

John got not reply. Sherlock was off again in his own world of mental gears grinding away at data. There was not much left to do when that happened, except to dig up more data for him to chew on. John turned back to the desk. "Have you checked the drawers yet?"

A few seconds passed before Sherlock responded. "No. Go for it."

As seemed the natural course of action, John pulled open the top drawer first. His heart sank a little when he found it mostly empty. There were a few sheets of scrap paper or drafts of things with lines struck through them, but they barely covered the bottom of the drawer.

"Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned halfway round. "What?"

"Did Lestrade mention taking files out of _this_ desk, too?"

As quick as a chameleon's tongue, Sherlock grabbed the drawer with both hands and looked in. After a moment he slammed it shut and opened the other two. Same thing, only in the bottom drawer, partly hidden by a torn sheet of graphing paper, lay an old photo. Sherlock snatched it and brought it up for John to see. The photo was of two young people, a man and a woman, smiling and standing with their arms around each other. The woman caught John's attention first. She was very attractive. Her long dark hair floated on a breeze. She had large, scintillating eyes that drew you in with hypnotic power. Not in a menacing way, though. Her expression was warm and generous, like she was too happy to be alive to by cynical of anything. She had a firm jaw and high cheekbones that accentuated her open smile, but also gave John the impression of someone with a sturdy constitution. No delicate, wilting flower here. And a good thing, too. Their locale didn't look very inviting. It wasn't just that they stood on sandy dirt under a wide blue sky streaked with clouds; it was that behind them John thought he could see a row of decrepit huts, like those in some of the villages he toured through in Afghanistan. The couple was also dressed for physical labour – stained, sun-bleached T-shirts and short with patches and loose thread – though what kind was hard to say. But the woman seemed unfazed by her surroundings or whatever job she was there to do.

When John turned his attention to the man, a small wave of déjà vu splashed on him. The man looked familiar, but he couldn't pinpoint how. He couldn't recall knowing anyone with a shag cut like that since his childhood and adolescence, when adults who'd lived through the '70s still refused to surrender to the renewal of conservatism in their culture. After staring at it for a minute, though, the features he did recognise became more apparent. If he added a few wrinkles here and a moustache there . . .

"That's Joseph Gary," John declared.

"Obviously."

"So, who's that with him?"

"Look at their left hands."

John did. Gary's held the woman's left shoulder while hers hung relaxed by her side. He wouldn't have been able to see her ring if the sun hadn't been reflecting brightly off it at the time the photo was taken.

"His first wife." Impelled to know more, John urged Sherlock to turn the photo over. They saw a note had been written on the back in a red pen. It said:

_J,_

_For the sacrifices you've made to make my dream come true,_

_I will love and cherish you always. May God bless our journey._

_M_

John just managed to finish reading the note when Sherlock stored it away in his inside coat pocket. Aside from it being a snippet of Gary's past, the photograph didn't hold many more clues about the man himself, so John let himself dismiss it and return his attention to the more pertinent problem. Both men stared at the gaping drawers that seemed to be silently laughing at them.

"Did they do it?" asked John. "The murderers, I mean. The ones who moved the rug. It doesn't really make sense, but—"

"It doesn't," Sherlock cut in. "We can ask Lestrade if they were empty when he looked in them, but I'm sure they weren't. Someone else has been here. Someone else is looking for this information. No surprise, really, considering how valuable it is. But—" He whirled around to John. "Why would someone take the risk of _leaving_ it? Especially after drawing attention to the spot. Unless . . . but why? _Why?_"

"Why what?" asked John.

Sherlock exhaled through his teeth. "Why would someone associated with Gary _want _this ledger to be discovered? And why do in such a way to make it look like he's covering it up?" Then his eyes got a bit wider. "Because he doesn't want the _others_ to think he left it for us to find on purpose. It must be. They all know each other, somehow. All connected." Sherlock took a sharp breath and tightened his grip on the book. "_This_ is the key, John! Not only to Gary's illicit activities, but to whoever might have wanted Gary dead!"

The pounding in John's ears from comprehending the Holy Grail they'd uncovered was suddenly competing with the increasing volume of police car sirens. He turned toward the window on instinct. Within seconds coloured lights started to flash somewhere along the street.

"Oh, bollocks."

Sherlock bolted out of the bedroom. Half a second later John did the same. Quickly checking all exit points from the middle of the living area, he was overcome by the sickening feeling that they were trapped. The second storey was too high up to risk a jump. The fall might not kill them, but they'd certainly break a few things. Leaving by the front door meant doom, too. What else could they do? Hide? Give themselves up? The last option seemed to be the only viable one.

Sherlock clearly thought otherwise. He climbed out the window by which they'd gained entrance.

"What are you doing? Are you insane?" John nevertheless came up behind Sherlock and prepared to perform the same action, despite how nonsensical it was. "We can't just jump down!"

"We can if we plan it carefully! Get out here!"

John's body temperature rose and warmed his skin and made beads of sweat pop onto his forehead, but he tried to keep his mind clear of hysteria. He didn't give himself a moment to acknowledge their distance from the ground before Sherlock charted their course. He grabbed John's shoulder and directed his attention to a ledge that ran along the side of the building away from the street. It was wide enough for them to step on and possibly walk across. "See the ledge there? And you see those four windows further down, two pairs stacked on top of each other? Walk over to the two farthest ones as fast as you can, and then drop down to the sill of the one directly below you. Then do it again down to the next window. Got it?"

"Yeah. Sure. No problem." John doubted Sherlock cared about the sarcasm weighing down his voice.

Sherlock made sure the window was securely closed, but he wasn't able to relock it from the outside. It didn't matter that much – what mattered was to keep the police, who were surely coming through the front door as the two of them made their escape, at bay until they touched ground. Much good it would do them, though, if even just one policeman peeked down the alley and saw them shuffling along the ledge. The only thing on their side was the increasing fog. It was still thin enough that John could keep his target in sight all times, yet there was a chance it obscured them from below. His greater concern was that the ledge would become slippery from moisture. He pressed his back and hands against the wall as hard as he could and tried to keep his breathing steady and his mind alert, all the while moving as quickly as possible.

It helped to have Sherlock close behind him, for both moral support and to have another spatial reference as visibility continued to drop. The two men kept about the same distance between them for the length of their treacherous walk. Sherlock needed to get closer to John only when they reached the windows. Then, like synchronised swimmers, they lowered themselves at the same time from the ledge, hung from it, then with a nod of agreement dropped to the concrete sills below. The landing, due to the proportions of the window, caused John to tilt back a bit, like he was going to topple backwards onto the asphalt. His reflexes kicked in in time – he pressed the palms of his hands against the underside of the top edge of the window. Sherlock, from what John saw after catching himself, did the same. John sighed and repeated the movement, with Sherlock mirroring him. He could feel the sweat working its way down his back and his legs. Just one more.

A strong feeling of panic grabbed John the second time, which meant his effort to grab the sides of the window were even more vigorous. Both he and Sherlock had reached the windows of the ground floor flat. They were still about two metres above the ground. It was close enough.

As soon as their feet touched ground, a male voice way above them shouted, "Stop there!"

John twisted around and looked up, unable to help himself. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and dragged him as he ran to the fence of the Phoenix Garden. John heard the pounding of rubber soles against the road as he threw himself over the fence after Sherlock. No time for arguments. He barely thought at all about how they were going to get out of this. He put his energy in keeping on Sherlock's tail while they sprinted through bushes and flowerbeds. He pushed himself harder as he became aware of the two or three bobbies chasing them. The harder he ran, the more the cold air made his throat and lungs sting.

Sherlock didn't take the same route as before. Instead of heading to Stacey Street, he ran toward Flitcroft Street – the portion that led to St Giles Church. This still meant climbing over another section of the same fence which John had surmounted with such trepidation. The pursuant policemen made it impossible to deliberate now. That was why it surprised John when, after at last reaching the fence on the far side of the garden, Sherlock scaled it and, before throwing his legs over to the other side, paused for a few seconds to wipe the leather book with his scarf. "What are you doing?" John gasped when he too reached the fence.

"Don't worry. Keep going, I'll be right there."

John was still climbing over when he saw the purpose of Sherlock's oddly-timed ministrations. After the book had been cleaned, Sherlock threw it Frisbee-style toward the approaching lawmen, who though still several metres off initially reacted to the unfamiliar flying object like startled deer. Apparently book-shaped bombs were a real-world possibility to them.

The diversion, if that was what Sherlock had intended, bought them a few precious seconds that both men put to use. Sherlock continued to lead the way down Flitcroft Street, which was void of any pedestrians. He leapt easily over the rails John had encountered earlier. John did nearly as well. The real challenge came after that, when Flitcroft street came to an end and met with the commercial avenue of Denmark Street. John vaguely remembered that Sherlock had come down this street yesterday, which at that moment seemed like an age ago. Despite the fog, which wasn't quite as thick here, John could see that most of the shops were dark inside. So the still substantial presence of people on the street could only be explained by the pubs and clubs that were still open. One of them, the 12 Bar Cafe, with its black and red front and large orange sign, sat right in front of them. It looked busy and full.

"This way," announced Sherlock, who walked at a fast pace away from the cafe toward another pub much further down the road.

John wanted to protest – the policemen couldn't be far behind, and they had a better chance of slipping out of sight if they went into the pub right before them. But it occurred to John, too, that they needed to appear calm and blend in with the rest of the pedestrians, which would help if he didn't bicker and look frantic for a place to hide. As they approached the other pub, which had a green awning looming over the entrance, Sherlock whispered to him: "That's the Tin Pan Alley Bar. It's not as popular and conspicuous. Ordinary people don't tend to go in at a certain hour. We'll be better off there."

John didn't like the implications of the second to last sentence. To help him keep some sangfroid, he took note of the stores they passed. Only then did it all hit him – the music shops, the interesting mix of regular folk and individuals wearing torn jeans, leather sleeveless jackets or loud T-shirts that paid homage to a variety of rock and punk bands. The Tin Pan Alley Bar. The truth hit him and made John almost stop walking from how much he shuddered. The worst part was _he didn't know why_. Something in his brain was screaming at him to make a connection. What, though? It was the West End. What did he expect? But there was something more; the proximity of Gary's flat and where his body had been dropped off to the Tin Pan Alley, and Gary's association to the theatre . . . it sent chills through him again and again, but he couldn't make a logical link. Did Sherlock see it? He must have when he walked this way to find a route back to Stacey Street. Reminding himself of this urged John to look around for that mysterious alley that brought Sherlock back to the first, not-real crime scene. He didn't see it. Now he was winding himself up. He inhaled and exhaled deeply for the last ten steps that remained between them and their destination.

Before they got there, Sherlock snuck one glance over his right shoulder. John was tempted to look, too, but he already understood that they couldn't both look back and risk being noticed. "They're back there," Sherlock said. "Looking as baffled as children. But they'll float around here for a while before giving up. Once we're inside we'll be fine."

John swallowed and nodded. He held onto that promise, if it could be counted as such. Sherlock opened the slim door and both of them met a cacophony of inscrutable pub chatter, throbbing beats from a drum, clashing symbols, and snarling and screaming electric guitar strings. Almost as soon as both their feet were through the door, a well-built gentleman with a small gold hoop in his ear and a too-wide smile that displayed wolfish teeth raised a hand at them and shouted, "G'devenin', chaps! Care to join us for pints?" He was sitting at the bar with several other blokes who turned in Sherlock and John's direction with similar smiles. Some of them could have been rockers; others were just scary-looking in their sweaty T-shirts and expressive body tattoos. One man with a shaven head was sticking the tip of his pocket knife into the surface of the bar and trying to twirl it as many times as possible, like it was a toy top.

John leaned toward Sherlock. He spoke in a regular voice since a whisper would have been lost in the din. "Is there a plan B?"


	16. The Tin Pan Alley Bar

Happy New Year, everyone! Hard to believe that exactly one year ago I posted the first chapter of this story. And guess what? This is about the halfway mark. Yep. You thought or hoped this was almost over? Aha ha ha ha ha ha _no_. This is probably going to take me about another year or so to complete. Something to look forward to (or not) for the coming year. Cheers!

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Chapter 15: The Tin Pan Alley Bar

Sherlock clapped John lightly on the back. "Just follow my lead." Before John could do anything to stop him, the detective put on a grin and strolled over to the friendly-yet-threatening characters at the bar. "Evening, gents! We'd be honoured."

Hopefully the detective realised that the situation could easily spiral out of control from unintentional physical contact or a poorly phrased comment. The fact Sherlock was treating it like another stop at a pub didn't offer much to quell John's concern. Yup, just an ordinary evening with knife-twirling thugs before them, policemen behind them, and the possibility of being stabbed, pulverised or arrested and convicted of breaking and entering hanging over their heads. Picking the least painful alternative was not simple. Not for John, in any case. Then again, some plan must have been in place for Sherlock to reason that they would be relatively safe in this noisy pub with its patrons. Doubting his own sanity a little, John trailed Sherlock by a few steps and perched on a stool between him and the knife-spinner.

"Are you blokes new to this establishment?" queried the hoop-earring fellow. He then slapped his hand on top of the bar a few times to get the bartender's attention. "A couple o' bitters over 'ere! Chop chop, Tommy!"

"Oi!" the bartender snapped back. He was as broad-shouldered as the man who'd invited them over, but he had a squatter stature and cleaner hair. "Easy on the finish! I just waxed it down today!"

"Sod off, Tommy," the knife-spinner shot back on his friend's behalf, who really couldn't be bothered to respond – he was too busy guzzling down more of his own amber-coloured beverage. "Don't be a sodding wanker and spoil our fun." He flashed John a grin full of darkly stained teeth and plucked his blade out of the wood. John managed to give him an amiable but not overtly inviting smile in return, then immediately turned his attention back to Sherlock.

The bartender gave the men and the knife a cross glare but kept quiet afterwards while he retrieved and filled two tall glasses. As the group waited, the earring-wearing man put his question to Sherlock again.

"It's been a while," Sherlock said, punctuating his relaxed demeanour with a shrug. "I don't remember it being so loud last time."

"Don't worry!" the man shouted. The young musicians occupying the platform on the other side of the room, in ripped jeans and snug dark T-shirts, began to play another song even more deafening than the last due to half-sung, half-shouted vocals. "You drown 'em out eventually. Or walk out of 'ere with a worse 'eadache than what you'll get in the morning!"

The bar patrons on both sides laughed in chorus. John wondered how any of them could hear what the other said at this point. Maybe they didn't. Maybe they just knew by the way the hoop-earring fellow moved his hands and widened his eyes until you could see the whites that he was trying to say something funny, and laughed out of civility.

"I guess you're here pretty frequently, then," said Sherlock after what sounded like a calculated chuckle.

"Sure!" The man took another sip of his beer. The movement gave John a chance to see the tattoo of a cat stepping on an arc of fire on his right arm. "The name's Blaine, by the way. You?"

"Sherlock. This is John." Sherlock used the vaguest of thumb-points to draw attention to his friend, but Blaine seemed intent on taking inventory of both newcomers. Again, John forced himself to smile politely and wave.

"You live in London, then?" asked Blaine. "Not from out o' town?"

Sherlock smirked and nodded. "Good guess."

Blaine's smile widened. It showed off his prominent incisors again. "I got an eye for these things."

"I'll bet you do."

Tommy the Bartender, eyes dancing skittishly at the party, set the glasses of fizzy, golden beverages in front of John and Sherlock. Neither man made a move to touch his drink, although John did feel a dry spot forming inside his throat. Tempting as the beer was, he tried to wet it by swallowing saliva instead. It was more important to keep an eye on their new friends, after all.

Blaine said with a raised hand and regarded the drinks and the duo. "This one's on me."

"Oh," said Sherlock, "I don't think so." Then John saw Sherlock make some small, quick movement on his left side that caused Blaine's congenial facade to morph into one of shock and pain.

"What the f—" Blaine made a jerking movement with his whole body, but something held him in place.

On instinct, John looked back at the knife-twirler. The skin on the man's bald head surged forward and wrinkled above his eyebrows. He aimed the short blade directly at John's heart.

"There's no need for a scuffle," Sherlock said in such a low voice it was barely audible to John. "I know for a fact there are policemen patrolling this street right now. Play nice and we'll both get what we want."

Blaine kept breathing heavily, but he tried to grin again and toss some of his long hair out of his face. "You're a terrible bluffer."

"Am I?" Sherlock now lifted his left hand to show John he had Blaine's right one in a fierce grip. The man's hand started to turn red from the lack of circulation. "How did I know you're a pickpocket?"

John cleared his throat. "Uh, Sherlock? Maybe we should . . ."

"Your friend here won't make it off his seat," rumbled the knife-wielder, "before getting stuck in the ribs."

Sherlock turned his freezing eyes on him. "Do it, and I promise you'll live to regret it."

John had to wonder if Sherlock was referring to revenge or to the fact that John had a gun inside his jacket. It would have made him feel better to put these thugs in their place, but the reveal might have backfired and led to a scuffle. For the moment John went along with making the creeps believe he and Sherlock were unarmed. He watched all three men carefully and noted the handful of eyes that were also looking their way. Hard to believe anyone noticed anything in this place bleeding with heavy rock music, not to mention all the other conversations and the telly over the bar tuned in to sports.

"Just 'old on a minute," said Blaine. He raised his other hand again at all of them like he was trying to calm a rough sea. He then addressed just Sherlock. "What you want?"

"I'm looking for someone," Sherlock stated.

Blaine straightened himself a bit to regain some of his composure. It didn't do much. Anyone could see his forehead was starting to dew up. "Who?"

"Jonas Nilsson."

John started and turned his head to his companion. _That _was his plan? So the whole running through the Phoenix Garden and ducking into the Tin Pan Alley Bar wasn't just a random action. No, of course not. It was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake. John tensely twisted his lips, thinking how yet again Sherlock hadn't divulged his entire plan to him. But that argument could wait.

"Nilsson?" For some reason, Blaine's confident manners evaporated, and he shifted and glanced around and scratched his beard in a neurotic manner. He was exhibiting the signs of someone given a chilling reminder of something he wished he didn't know. "What could you want with 'im?"

"He's a well-known character, I take it," Sherlock coolly remarked.

"People don't just walk in here," cut in Knife Man, "and ask about Jonas Nilsson unless they want trouble."

"Ah." The most maddeningly smug smile adorned Sherlock's mouth as he glimpsed back and forth between his new acquaintances. "That's very good news."

Blaine scoffed in disbelief. "Are you mental or something? Or you got a death wish?"

"Is Nilsson that dangerous?" Sherlock was growing more delighted by the second.

"Not just 'im!" Blaine leaned closer to Sherlock, as if anyone could possibly be eavesdropping on them. "The people 'e works for are just as bad. He's a scary man with scary friends. You're better off shootin' yourself in the 'ead first."

"I'm afraid that's not going to help me much." Sherlock finally released Blaine's red-purple hand, making the thug gasp. "There's another person else I need to find. Someone he knows."

There was silence, or as much silence as one can expected between people in the Tin Pan Alley Bar on a Local Band Consortium night. Blaine winced from the pain and from the prospect of continuing this conversation. The other man had lowered his blade a bit, but that only forced John to worry about his guts or his private parts instead of his torso. "Who?" Blaine asked at last.

"Malaika Qadir," said Sherlock.

Blaine scowled puzzlingly. "Never 'eard of 'er."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock used his most incisive tone. It would have cut through most hard men's outer defences.

"Yeah." Blaine's eyes were round again, though not nearly as wide as when he tried to be funny. He looked sincere enough. "How would 'e know 'er?"

"Well," said Sherlock, "if you don't know who she is, you don't _really_ need to know that, do you?"

"Now look 'ere!" Blaine got to his feet while still flexing his hand. A few more blokes that seemed to be Blaine's multiple shadows rose with him. "You've got the bollocks to come in here and stick me with question after question about some bloke you've no business asking about!" With his bevy of friends backing him up, Blaine appeared to finally get a hold on his old facade of confidence again. "Now it's your turn to play nice. Why don't you share your troubles with us?"

Sherlock stood up, too. He and Blaine came to about the same height. What a shame Blaine was nearly twice Sherlock's girth. Muscles disguised as fat – John could tell without giving a hands-on physical. Without needing to think, he reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of his gun with one finger.

"I appreciate the offer," said Sherlock, squaring his shoulders, "but I'm not much of a sharer. One of my many faults."

"No kidding," John muttered as quietly as he could. Even so, he thought Sherlock's head turned ever so slightly in his direction.

"That's a shame." Blaine brought up his hands in front of them and took a minute cracking each knuckle. "Guess we'll 'ave to wrench them out o' you."

"You really shouldn't do that," Sherlock said.

Blaine grinned in a nasty way. He was out of friendly expressions. "And why not?" His friends, though they varied in size, were fit enough to give either Sherlock of John trouble on their own. As a group, they were undoubtedly formidable.

"Because you're chaffing the cartilage in those joints, which will cause more rapid deterioratation more and an early onset of chronic arthritis."

Several confused looks were exchanged. They bought John a few seconds to edge closer to Sherlock to better defend him, and for both of them to move backwards toward the front door. Knife Man, unfortunately, was not as distracted and had a mind to snag John's sleeve and tear his hand away from the pocket where the gun resided.

Blaine stirred himself out of his baffled daze, rolled up his sleeves and approached Sherlock alone. "Just for that, I'm goin' to hit you twice as 'ard." He grabbed Sherlock by the scarf, but before he even raised his other arm for the punch, something smashed into the back of his head. A shower of glass shards shot out in all directions in a crystal halo around Blaine's head. Blaine lunged forward a little, his eyes and mouth wide open. His grip on Sherlock was forgotten. John's eyes found what remained of the small water glass on the floor behind Blaine's feet. The glass had been delicate enough that it hadn't knocked Blaine unconscious. When the man whipped around, it was clear his head hadn't been badly hurt, though there were still shards, large and small, caught in his tangled hair.

"Who the _hell _threw that?" Blaine yelled so loudly even the rock music diminished, and almost all conversations came to a stop.

It was almost five seconds when another voice broke through the tense pause. It wasn't the answer Blaine was looking for. "_Fight!_"

All at once, glasses and plates started to crash against tables and the floor. Grown men threw themselves at each other in essentially feral animosity. Any women who were present either fled to the ladies' toilet or tried to stop their male companions from continuing their brutish scuffle. As for Sherlock and John, it was another diversion. John tried to go for the front entrance, but Sherlock seized him by the arm and began to drag him _into_ the fray. John wanted to resist or demand an explanation for this suicidal tactic, but Blaine stepped in their way first. His friends were not as closely on hand as he seemed to think; that gave John enough reason to believe that, now, the gun would be a help. They were in the middle of pub brawl, anyway.

Again, however, John's hand never got hold of the pistol. A pair of powerful hands grabbed Blaine's shoulders from behind and pulled him away from John and Sherlock. John's heart nearly gave out when he saw who had interfered. When Blaine saw him, he looked as equally close to dropping dead from terror. He looked up into the square face of the tall, hulking Swede and instantly stumbled away to a safer distance.

Sherlock also looked up into his so-called rescuer's face. He half-grinned, half-winced, then cleared his throat. "Mr Nilsson."

"Mr Holmes." Jonas Nilsson wore the same clothes he'd had on earlier that day, except now his head sported a gray cap with a black leather band around the base. It rested low over his eyes. He also wore a heavier coat that was a darker shade of his hat.

Shifting to one leg, Sherlock looked him up and down. "Fancy seeing you here."

"You as well." Nilsson looked intriguingly unperturbed by the detective's presence. It made John wonder how long he'd been aware of them. Did he have friends with him? Were they also waiting to assault them in some dark corner or alley? John felt his skin prickle with the spike in adrenaline running through him, which actually felt good. He felt aware and sharp. That was helpful considering he had to duck and dodge a few glasses or food items that came his way now and then.

"Care to have a chat?" Sherlock asked. He stepped gracefully to the right as a random patron fell backwards from being socked in the jaw. John stayed close to him.

"I'm not certain this is the best time," Nilsson answered.

"Why is that?"

Another timely patron flipped over a table and sent several glasses, plates and utensils shattering and clattering on the hard floorboards. The beverages in the glasses and the fish and chips on the plates spattered everywhere in an almost artistic pattern. The devastation was so gripping, in fact, that John almost didn't hear the bartender behind him trying to get his attention. Tommy's shouts finally got through to both him and Sherlock, though.

"You'd better get out of here," he shouted through the ruckus. "I just called the fuzz. Sorry to have to cut your evening short."

"No, don't worry," said Sherlock. "Thank you." He regarded Nilsson again. "Perhaps you're right. Another time, then." He made to step past Nilsson, but found a large arm blocking his path.

"Where are you going?" The bass voice didn't betray anger or panic, which made it all the more intimidating.

Sherlock's knotted eyebrows, on the other hand, started to give away his own anxiety. Not for himself, John knew, but for whatever it was he thought he needed to do at that moment that Nilsson appeared interested in preventing. "You heard what Tommy said. I don't think any of us want to be here when the police arrive."

"You have time. Go out the front."

Grey eyes sharpened like lances on Nilsson. "Why should it make a difference?"

"It doesn't. That's why you should go out the front door. It's closer."

"But that's how the police will come in."

The sounds of wood being kicked and hinges being swung alerted John to what Sherlock had predicted. "Everyone halt!" shouted a brassy voice behind him. "Hands up where we can see them!"

"See?" said Sherlock without looking anywhere but at Nilsson.

All bets were off. Nilsson bolted for the men's toilet, making the way clear for Sherlock and John to navigate the swarm of now dozens of bar patrons trying to flee. Sherlock grabbed hold of John's arm again and never let it slip. John pressed his arms against his body to better manoeuvre and penetrate the crowd, and to keep up with Sherlock who cut through everyone like a razor, even if he was knocked about in the process by unsuspecting bodies. Glass and ceramanics crunched under their shoes, and John was pretty sure he stepped on an open-face egg salad sandwich (whether it'd been open-faced before it hit the floor was another question).

John kept thinking that they were going to get caught. Well, he was preparing himself for that very possible reality. They were trying to avoid a police raid, after all! And after breaking into a dead man's flat, no less! Surely one of the bobbies would recognise them. So many times he felt a hand graze his back and he told himself they'd got him. If that happened, he would need to somehow wrench his arm free from Sherlock without his friend being aware. He may have hated all the times Sherlock left him high and dry, but if it'd been his choice, John wouldn't have let the police take Sherlock in, too. Not unless he really deserved it.

The air got thicker and hotter, and the space tighter and more cramped, as the pair neared the back of the pub. Sherlock rounded a corner, still holding fast to John, and squeezed through the many individuals trying to get out the back door. Even through everyone was pushing and shoving to get through, no one seemed to pay each other much care once they crossed the threshold and met the cold night air. From there the patrons ran down the dark alley and either scaled the backs of the buildings surrounding them or ducked down any of the tiny alleys between buildings on the right. Instead of taking either option, Sherlock ducked to the left and hid himself and John behind a protruding wall of a gap that led to a dead end. As soon as they stopped, John doubled over and planted his hands on his knees. His bronchial tubes burned from his gasps and pants, but he was all too happy to be out of that God-forsaken pub.

"Just wait a minute," said Sherlock, also gasping for breath. He kept his back pressed against the brick wall and his eyes trained on the passing patrons. As soon as the number diminished to practically none, Sherlock leaned past John to look back at the back door. His took John's wrist again. "We'll have to chance it. Come on!"

John gulped another breath down. "What are we going? Are you going to tell me a _single_ thing about what we're doing?"

The two men stopped suddenly – well, Sherlock stopped suddenly and, by the laws of physics, stopped John with his tether of an arm – right at the end of the alley. It finally came to John's attention that they were in the covered alley connected to Stacey Street. That was as far as his brain could go before Sherlock took out his torch and shined it on the ground. Or, rather, shined it on the manhole.

"Look, John! He's been here!" Sherlock let John go and went to his knees. His fingers searched his pockets until they found his lock-picking kit and extracted the largest tool to pry open the manhole. John, more on instinct than anything, joined Sherlock and helped him lift it up before asking him anything.

"Sherlock? Why are we doing this?"

Sherlock grunted with undisguised exasperation. "This manhole has just been used. The man from the pub came down this way, I'm sure of it."

"What man?"

The heavy metal lid rung at they set it on the asphalt. Sherlock took the liberty of throwing his legs in and climbing down the barely visible ladder first. "Didn't you see him? The one who threw the glass at Blaine?"

"Um, no. You did?"

"Of course I did!"

John sighed. "Of course. What did he look like?"

As they continued talking, John slid the heavy lid back in place above him and followed Sherlock down the ladder into the dark, bile-smelling bowels of London. The river of sewage flowed slowly on this stretch partly because the tunnels were quite wide. There was even a narrow ledge on one side by which workers could navigate the sewers without wetting their shoes. One had to be careful where one stepped, though, which made the torches a vital aid to their exploration.

"He had the look of an old man," Sherlock answered John as he took his first cautious steps along the cement walkway. "Six foot, approximately. He was wearing glasses, a black fedora and a dark gray overcoat. Dark chin-length hair with gray streaks, sallow complexion, angular face, hawkish nose, big but bony hands. He walked with his shoulders hunched, but I think that's an affectation or cover instead of a real medical condition."

"Why do you think that?" asked John.

Sherlock paused in his walk to scan the walkway, the walls and the surface of the sewer waters. The walkway seemed especially important as the most likely place to find traces of footprints. "He has a good arm for an old man, if he is in fact old. At first glance he probably registers in the seventies, but his strength and speed say otherwise. He threw that glass clear across the room – and with lethal accuracy. Then he exited by the back door very quickly, before anyone else noticed him, and managed to lift the manhole lid, supposedly by himself, and come down here and get far enough ahead to be out of sight and earshot for us."

John coughed after accidentally taking a large gulp of foul air. "What if he didn't get so far ahead? Maybe he's hiding somewhere."

"Possible, but his options are limited. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Right." Another string of softer coughs came out before John continued. "How did you happen to spot him?"

Sherlock turned his eyes back to John. Even in the dark his irises caught a few rays of light from the torches. "He was sitting with Nilsson."

The fact hit John hard in the chest. He blinked to brush off the stunning affect. "You mean you knew Nilsson was there? The _whole_ time? Why did you bother with those other blokes, then? Why not go to Nilsson directly?"

"What good would that have done? All right – I would've been able to ask him about Malaika. But I needed to know what kind of reputation he has in a place like the Tin Pan Alley."

"But how did you know he would be there?"

"That's the pub where the lower-level criminals of Soho go. I already knew Nilsson was one, given his association with that construction firm and his possible connection to Gary. Now that we've confirmed Gary was directly involved with criminal rings, finding out about Nilsson's rep has provided us another piece of the puzzle."

A few of those pieces started to connect inside John's head. "You think maybe Nilsson had something to do with Gary's murder. If you're saying the guy Nilsson was with is actually pretty strong, then they both would match the profiles of the murderers."

"It's definitely an important consideration." The beam of Sherlock's torch floated across the tunnel wall again. He then turned it directly out in front of him so that the yellow circle landed several metres ahead on a curve in the passage. Sherlock muttered, "So, who is this other man?"

The next fifteen minutes, give or take, were spent in silence with only the occasional interruption of a sewer rat crawling out of a drain or a large piece of debris splashing against the walkway's edge. The men eventually met a fork in the tunnel, and they seemed apparently as devoid of new clues as when they first descended. "Sherlock," said John, "I don't know about you, but I'm knackered and would like to shower as soon as humanly possible. I think it's time to head back."

Sherlock waved his torch back and forth. "We're better off walking to Baker Street this way. You can hold out a little longer."

"Are you serious? I'm not going to get myself lost in a sewer!"

"You won't if you follow me. I know the way there."

"Oh, really? And how about when we have to go back up? How do you know we won't be popping up in the middle of the street?"

Sherlock turned around completely, looking a bit perplexed. "Of course we will. Where else do you expect to find a manhole?"

John set his teeth together. "Why am I not surprised that you're basically asking me to climb out of a sewer and dodge traffic before being allowed to wash, eat and sleep?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm not asking you, John. But if you want to avoid the police, who are conducting a thorough search of the area above, you'll do it. It's your choice, though."


	17. New Management

So, after submitting the new prologue, I figured I ought to just finish the doggone new chapter I'd started about 3 months ago. Here you are.

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Chapter 16: New Management

The matter of the cardboard model had been forgot until the detecting duo returned home, when Mrs Hudson had the kindness to point it out. She explained that it'd gone too quiet up there after John got back, so she'd popped in to check on them and offer some pastries Mrs Turner had baked and given her. The pastries were still waiting in her kitchen. Sherlock decided to indulge himself. "Indispensable as always, Mrs Hudson," he said, talking through a mouthful of dough and pink frosting.

"That's the first time you've eaten all day, isn't it?" Mrs Hudson gently scolded.

"No. John had the courtesy to force some toast and marmalade down my throat this morning."

"And his vitamins, too," John added with a smile.

Mrs Hudson patted John on the shoulder in gratitude, then asked about the model. John's fleeting bubble of satisfaction burst. His rejuvenating shower had to wait until they dismantled it and disposed of the cardboard. Although he very much wanted the bloody thing out of the way, he questioned Sherlock when they were back in the rooms if he could afford to toss it. Sherlock assured him that it had served its purpose. "I downloaded a complete blueprint here," he said, tapping his right temple.

John felt a surge of animalistic pleasure in tearing through the miniaturised walls and floors. He couldn't wait to get to the auditorium. "What a shame you couldn't have done that using, you know, _just_ the blueprints."

Sherlock shot a narrowed glare at him before flattening one of the outer walls. "Not my fault you were taking so long at the surgery."

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault we've got a cardboard replica of the Palace Theatre in our flat. Yeah, that makes perfect sense."

"We could have been doing other things for the case during that time." Sherlock tore apart two sections of stapled cardboard with more force than necessary. "We could have looked for Malaika or gone down to the theatre's lower levels ourselves. Instead you had to run off and be a . . . normal, boring doctor."

"Sometimes going to a boring job is a healthy thing. I know you can't fathom that, but it's true."

Sherlock just sniggered. After throwing him an annoyed glance, John sighed and tore open the stage to reveal its cavernous interior stuffed with clumps of newsprint. "Why is it such an issue? You could have done that stuff without me."

"No, I couldn't have."

John, holding a large piece he'd freed from the structure, paused in mid-fold. "What do you mean you couldn't have?"

The detective pursed his lips and crossly tossed his cardboard piece onto the floor. "There _are_ times when it helps to split up and investigate things individually. I found it easier to talk to the managers and take the blueprints by myself today. But with those other things, it's more productive to have a second pair of eyes on hand, even if the brain behind them can barely differentiate the important details from the trivial ones."

While he let the meaning of his statement run laps in his head a few times, John shifted his weight to his left leg. His right leg wasn't really bothering him anymore, but he'd come to unconsciously rely on the other when he needed to stand still and think. "Okay. Insult aside, are you saying that you actually waited for me so we could keep working on this case together?"

Some vague expression of confusion, or worry, passed across Sherlock's face. He promptly turned it into an annoyed scowl. "What's the point of a partnership if we aren't working together? Stop being dense."

"Oh, come on. You would've taken care of those things if it were urgent." John carried some pieces out to a pile at the top of the stairs outside the rooms. When he turned to come back in, he found Sherlock standing straight and still, though not fully facing him. He looked pretty put out.

"Are you saying you _want_ me to start doing things by myself without telling you?" Sherlock's voice went more acrid. "Are you that fed up with it all? Thinking about dropping this and settling into a _normal_ life?"

John closed his eyes. He could sense a headache coming on. "You're such a child. You're blowing this way out of proportion." He walked back inside, making sure not to brush against Sherlock in case that set him off even more. "Maybe you hate the idea of a dull job, but I'm rather fine with it! I like having that other source of income. And need I remind you that I _am_ a doctor? Not just _your_ doctor, either, but one who might be interested in helping other people, too."

"You do help people!" cried Sherlock.

"I help _you_ help people – which is fine most of the time. But, now and then . . . I just like having that other place, or that other job, that's not as hectic as . . . Sherlock, stop looking at me like that."

Sherlock's frown threatened to turn into an angry pout. He refused to move while John attempted further progress with the clean-up. They maintained their wordless stalemate for about twenty seconds. That is, John maintained it until he came back into the room with cramping back muscles, gave a winded sigh and said, "Look, I'm free to tag along with you wherever you want tomorrow." Sarah's face popped up in his mind. He winced. "For the most part."

Sherlock hadn't looked at John yet, but the amendment snapped him out of his grumpy stupor. "What do you mean?"

Several ideas came to mind, and all but one quickly sank back down. It wasn't a very clever ruse, but maybe its simplicity would blindside Sherlock. John pulled an awkwardly sheepish face by wincing more and scratching the back of his head. It didn't require much acting. "They want me back tomorrow night. Sorry. It'll only be for a few hours, I promise."

He didn't like how closely Sherlock was scrutinising him. "What time?"

John puffed up his cheeks as he recalled the time he agreed to meet Sarah. "About seven. But I'll be free the whole day before that, all right?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor. His nostrils flared a little. John tensed from waiting for a response. As he braced himself for more intrusive questions, he snatched up one of the last small heaps of rubbish. He started to leave again when Sherlock jerked his head toward John and blurted out, "Oh, _fine_." His face creased around the eyes and mouth so deeply that, for half a second, he really did look like an overgrown child. In the same attitude, the detective threw himself onto the sofa. "Do whatever you want."

His words informed John that the rest of the rubbish could wait. After depositing what was already in his arms, the doctor retreated to the bathroom and sniffed his shirt. He nearly gagged. The sooner he stopped smelling like a sewer, the better.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting at the table when John woke up the next morning. The detective had apparently prepared his own breakfast this time. It wasn't that tremendous a shock, but John sought to apprehend his flatmate's intention behind this veil of atypical normalness. The biggest betrayal was Sherlock's restless toes, even though they should have been shielded from notice by his shoes. There, too, lay another betrayal. The fact that Sherlock was already dressed to go out suggested that he had a plan already set in place for the day, and he was eagerly anticipating John to get up, breakfast and dress in a timely fashion. Feeling a little pleased at his deductions, John voiced them as he sat down with his plate of fried eggs and bangers.

"I see you're in rare form this morning." Sherlock kept his tone underwhelmed. "_I_ can deduce, however, that you don't know what I'm planning despite how blatantly obvious it is."

"Well, I didn't want to hog all the fun," John tossed back in good humour. "But there are a few things I want to clear up first." With that he brought out his writing pad of notes from the last two days. He flipped through it a few times until he found what he wanted. He put his finger to the page. "Okay. We've established that Joseph Gary was murdered in his office at the Palace Theatre, not on Stacey or Flitcroft Street. We know two people were involved in carrying the body, which makes it very likely that both people were involved in Gary's death. Motive is as yet unknown. So, what does the ledger we found at the flat have to do with the murder?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee. "It tells us that Gary was managing the accounts of a lot of criminal parties, probably for a particular person or organisation. You can imagine how messy things get, especially when a lot of money is involved. We won't be able to pinpoint a motive or a suspect until the ledger is more thoroughly examined."

"Yeah," said John somewhat coyly. "And how are we going to do that? You practically handed it over to the police."

Sherlock's lip twitched a little. It was hard to tell if he was on the verge or a sly smile, or if he was actually embarrassed. "I'm sure it will fall into the right hands."

"Why did you wipe it first?"

"Fingerprints. Well, _your_ fingerprints. I was wearing gloves. How many times have I told you to wear gloves when we do break-ins?"

John opted to wolf down his food instead of giving a verbal answer. It was better to take advantage of the luxury of eating in the midst of a case. "You know," he said after he cleaned his plate, "maybe the criminal-organisation route isn't the only one to consider. What about Mrs Gary and Malaika? Maybe the wife decided she'd had enough of her husband's secrecy and confronted him about it."

"At his office? At two or three in the morning?"

"It's not inconceivable."

"Mrs Gary might have believed her husband was unfaithful," Sherlock countered before taking another sip, "but she had nothing to benefit from her husband's death."

"What about life insurance?" John posed. "Maybe she wanted revenge and financial compensation at the same time."

Again Sherlock rebutted, now with a head shake. "She isn't in need of money. She has a steady job, and her clothing and jewellery are both new and well taken care of." Sherlock finished his coffee but didn't get up to wash it. Instead he occupied himself with drumming his fingers on the table. "Besides, it would have cost her more to hire people to kill him – she wouldn't have dirtied her hands, and she doesn't have the physique to get rid of his body herself. And why kill him at his office instead of in an alley, only to leave his body in an alley afterwards?"

John half-smiled. "And she would've needed someone in her employ with the opportunity to clean up the scene afterwards."

"Including the chair," Sherlock tacked on.

John nodded. It did seem far-fetched now to think Mrs Gary was behind it. "I guess Malaika would have had similar problems. But we know less about her than Mrs Gary."

Sherlock glanced out the window. His fingers continued tap-dancing. "That's something that requires follow-up. Maybe Gary left her something in his will, if they were in fact close."

"But," said John, getting up and taking his plate and Sherlock's dishes to the kitchen, "you don't think she and Gary were having an affair."

"It's unlikely." Sherlock stopped his drumming and brought his hands together in front of his lips. "She must know something about Gary's life that his wife doesn't. If she's an illegal immigrant, that might place her at the mercy of shady people for protection."

"Ah!" John exclaimed as he came back. He'd hopped onto Sherlock's brainwave. "That's why you want to find her. A connection between her and the criminals recorded in Gary's ledger would complete the circle."

"But there's still Nilsson and the other man to consider," said Sherlock. His pensive scowl deepened.

"But why? Why do you think there's a connection between Nilsson and Malaika? That was why you wanted to talk to him last night, right?"

"Because there's undoubtedly a connection between Nilsson and Gary – they were involved with the same construction firm, which Lestrade confirmed is nothing if not suspect."

"But Nilsson works for the church, not the firm. That could just be a coincidence."

Sherlock let out an agitated cry and slapped his hands on the table. "John, John, _John_ – have you learned _nothing_ from our past cases? When facts are so closely aligned, there's almost no room for coincidence."

John couldn't resist grinning. "Didn't you once say that people who don't believe in coincidences must lead very boring lives?"

He received an irritated but still haughty glare in return. "There's coincidence, and then there's correlation. This is the latter. You'll see."

"Fine. Let's say it is." John spent a minute looking out the window to churn the facts a little more. Thank goodness the weather had improved from yesterday. The warm sunshine helped him think more clearly, as if it could literally shed light on the facts and make some important connection or revelation leap out at him. One confounding idea did take centre stage, even if it didn't clarify things much. He eventually said aloud, "I wonder if the renovations are somehow significant. If Nilsson and Gary were in on something that had to do with Brennan & Devine, you'd think it was related to the renovations for the Palace Theatre and St Martin."

Squinting thoughtfully, Sherlock replied, "Could just be a racketeering scheme."

"Pretty bold scheme for two famous buildings in Soho."

Sherlock knowingly raised his eyebrows. "Who do you think backs those businesses, especially the Palace Theatre?"

John felt he'd been doing pretty well up till now keeping on track with the facts. He checked his watch. It'd been about fifteen minutes before he got derailed. "Sorry?" he asked.

"Many upper-crust members of London's crime rings, particularly those who operate in the West End, put their money in more legitimate enterprises like theatre. Any given show has to have a high success rate to keep running, so it can be a lucrative investment."

"And a risky one, I imagine," said John.

"Only if you invest in a flop." Sherlock's eyes all at once lit up. "Oh, now _there's_ a thought."

John straightened to attention. "What?"

Several seconds of non-responsiveness. Just twitching eyes. "Don't worry about," the detective eventually muttered. "We have other things to address first." From some hidden place his mobile blurted out a ring. "Like that!" He retrieved it from inside his jacket and answered it. "Lestrade? Good morning! We'll be right over."

* * *

The two men were allowed to loiter in Lestrade's office unsupervised for a few minutes. While they waited, Sherlock took turns staring out the large windows that overlooked the street and spinning in one of the swivel chairs. When John told him to knock off the spinning, he claimed it helped him think. John was quite certain it was just his blasted ADD or whatever making a nuisance of itself. And, yes, given that this was Sherlock Holmes, John wouldn't have been surprised if his friend's attention disorder possessed a consciousness of its own, and that it existed to drive Sherlock and those around him bonkers.

John breathed out loudly at Lestrade's appearance and gladly held open the door for him. Lestrade was carrying a crate, which he set on his slightly tidier desk. "As if this case couldn't get any more bizarre," Lestrade preluded after Sherlock ceased his spinning and John sat down in the other chair. "Last night two blokes broke into Gary's flat and stole this from his room."

He took the leather-bound ledger out of the box. Sherlock jumped up, swiped the book from Lestrade's hands and leafed through it. He made it look like he was viewing it for the first time. John kept his composure even as he mentally chuckled.

"Some constables were called to the scene and chased them through the Phoenix Garden. Then, for some reason, the guy carrying the ledger tossed it back to them! It's not clear if they took anything else, but a sweep of the place showed that the drawers of Gary's desk had also been ransacked."

"Was that where the ledger was kept originally?" John asked. He caught Sherlock looking askance at him.

"No! If you can believe it, it was actually in some secret compartment in the floor under the desk. You were right, Sherlock: someone was trying to cover it up. But it seems someone else found it, anyway."

Another chuckle threatened to escape John's mouth.

"Looks like someone else once again did your job for you," Sherlock dryly noted.

The awkward silence that followed worried John. Sherlock might have gone a step too far, judging by the way Lestrade regarded at him and John with a keen gaze. It lasted only a moment, though. "There was something else we found," he continued.

Sherlock's head snapped up. John thought Lestrade was referring to the receipt for Gary's cufflinks, but, if he remembered rightly, Sherlock never returned it to the compartment. He still had it.

Lestrade reached into the crate and produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a slip of paper. John flinched. Fortunately, Lestrade focused more on Sherlock than him. Sherlock took the bag and nimbly removed the paper. A closer viewing both relieved and baffled John. The slip wasn't the receipt; it was ordinary printer paper with a version the Fawkes Day poem typed in black ink, Times New Roman font:

Remember, remember!

The _fifth_ of _Novem_ber,

The Gunpowder _Treason_ and _Plot_;

I can think of no reason

Why the Gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

_Guy Fawkes_, Guy Fawkes,

'Twas his intent

To blow up the _King_ and the _Parliament_.

_Three score_ barrels of powder _below_.

Poor old _England_ to _overthrow_.

By God's providence he was _catch_'d,

With a dark _lantern_ and burning _match_.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the _bells ring_.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save _the Queen_!

"You think that's strange?" said Lestrade. "Turn it over."

Sherlock did. On the back, a single sentence had been scrawled by hand with a red pen. The detective's eyes widened as he tried to read it. "My God, look at that handwriting. You decipher it, John, what with your experience with medical penmanship."

John rolled his eyes before taking the paper. He went word by word. Each took him several seconds to work out. The handwriting looked like it belonged to a primary school student. When John got through it, he had the following sentence: "Every riddle is knowledge abridged." The doctor looked up to see Sherlock and Lestrade sharing similar quizzical expressions. He shrugged at them. "Doesn't make any more sense to me."

Sherlock snatched the paper away from John and scrutinised the front side again. "Where did you find this?"

"It was in the book," Lestrade said. "About the middle. We missed it a few times, actually, it was stuck in there so well. What about the poem? I can't understand what it's meant to mean. If it weren't for the writing on the back, I'd say Gary left it in there by mistake, or used it as a page marker."

"The italicised words might hold some kind of message," Sherlock mumbled. His gaze bore into the paper like a drill penetrating useless dirt and rock for oil.

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock looked back up at the inspector. "What could you make of the ledger? It's more important to focus on that."

Lestrade, folding his arms, assumed his explanation pose. "We checked through all the names. It looks like Gary was handling finances for a lot of felons and mobsters."

"Any connection to Brennan & Devine?"

"Possibly. You'll be pleased to know Nilsson's name appears in there. Looks like he wasn't so keen to turn a new leaf, after all. As for the rest, Gary must have been working for an organisation, or at least the head of one. There are columns that keep a record of how much clients still owe for a service or certain goods, and the list of goods and services is too varied to be a one-man enterprise. Drugs, weapons, laundered money, forged paperwork . . ."

The last item jogged John's memory on an important thread in the investigation. "Any mention of Malaika Qadir in the ledger?"

Sherlock glanced at him again, this time with more apparent approval.

"None, I'm afraid," said Lestrade, looking quite tired of that stubborn knot. "I've got people sniffing around for her, but nothing's come up so far. I'll let you know when we get a lead."

"I'd appreciate that very much," said Sherlock in a tone that was either condescending or doubtful. He needed to be more specific with his snark sometimes. With a parting smile, he smoothly pivoted and walked to the door, ledger under his arm.

Lestrade raised a hand. "Hold it!" He beckoned with his fingers. "Bring it back."

Sherlock halted. "What?"

"You know what. You're not walking out of here with evidence."

Sherlock sighed irritably and went back to Lestrade's desk. He threw the ledger into the crate. "Happy?"

"What have you done with the paper?"

Sherlock switched over to gentle assurance. "It'll be safe with me. I promise."

"That's not the point. It's evidence for a murder case, therefore _my_ jurisdiction."

Gentle assurance wasn't doing what he wanted, so Sherlock flipped the toggle back to snippy. "What can you do with it? If the poem has a hidden message, I've a much better chance of cracking it than you."

Harrumphing, Lestrade turned his eyes to the other employees of NSY who walked past his office with hardly a glance in his direction. No one would know, and at this point Lestrade didn't have much to back up his claim. With or without the DI's knowledge or consent, Sherlock had lifted evidence dozens of times before. Another minute of deliberation did nothing but force Lestrade to accept defeat.

"Just be careful with it, all right?"

Sherlock simply nodded and tried for the door again. John followed this time.

"One more thing," said Lestrade as Sherlock turned the knob. The younger man impatiently glowered at him. Lestrade proceeded, anyway. "The constables said they didn't get a good look at the two burglars from the break-in, but they did see that one of them wore a long, dark coat and had flouncy hair. What do you make of that?"

John found it easier to keep his reaction casually puzzled by looking at Sherlock, who returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow. He then turned back to Lestrade and answered in all seriousness. "I can only imagine what kind of idiot wears a long coat and doesn't even bother to cover his head for a break-in."

The pair watched Lestrade look them both over. Finally he sat down in his desk chair and put his hands behind his head. "Yeah. Me, too."

* * *

The Palace Theatre was next on their agenda, according to Sherlock as they climbed into a cab.

"What about the blueprints?" asked John. "You said you were going to return them."

Sherlock feigned offense while drawing the left side of his coat away from his body. "John, have a little faith!" He partly withdrew a folded sheet a little too big for the inside pocket.

John eyed the sheet and his friend. At least Sherlock was being a tad more responsible, but they had another problem to deal with. "How are you going to return them without their notice?"

The meaning in Sherlock's long, falsely blank stare wasn't lost on John. He closed his eyes and turned toward the window. "Oh, no," he groaned.

Twenty minutes later they were at the door of the manager's office. Mr Gabriel was once again present to escort them and knock on the door to request the new managers' presence. John noted that the director looked even more skittish than last time. Was the man just the nervous sort, or was Gary's murder getting to him? He didn't seem to suffer from the same acute nervousness as Cecilia James, going by their first meeting when he seemed such an affable tour guide. He was courteous as ever, though. In an effort to cheer him up, John said to him with a smile, "Hope Mrs Bucket hasn't been any more trouble with Box 5!"

Gabriel managed a pained smile. He offered no spoken response. John checked Sherlock's reaction in case, by some miracle or frightening break with reality, Sherlock wanted to rebuke him for his rudeness. The detective's eyes were still on the door to the office. He looked as if he hadn't heard a word. The universe was still in its proper order. To bring things back into complete balance, however, a small welt of guilt grew inside John's stomach. He apologised to Gabriel right before the door to the office opened. Gabriel smiled a bit more naturally and dismissed himself to attend to his other duties.

Things weren't about to get any better as far as John could foresee. Not if he was supposed to be the diversion for Sherlock's attempt to return the blueprints right under their noses. It wasn't a new role, admittedly, so he had little reason to complain or break into a sweat. He devoted his attention to matching Sherlock's confident steps as they went inside. His increased concentration instantly crumbled when confronted with a major distraction. He didn't recognise the room as Gary's office. Then again, it technically _wasn't_ his anymore. The carpet was the same, but there were two desks standing at 45 degree angles from the door. Both were slightly smaller than Gary's, yet twice as littered with personal paraphernalia, computers and papers. Gary's awards and books had also disappeared, substituted with pictures of the two new men and their various celebrity friends and acquaintances (in the broadest sense). Were the men, or at least the company they worked for, so determined to erase Gary out of existence? Were they actually trying to cover up something?

The new managers stood in expectation of their visitors, though their tight facial expressions gave away their eagerness to get through this meeting as quickly as possible. They introduced themselves as Filbert Richards and Arnold Montgomery. Montgomery was a bit stouter than Richards and had a monochromatic style of dressing himself. Although he didn't wear a tie, he looked the more formally dressed of the two. He also proved to be the more talkative. Richards, built up like a lean steel tower, wore a hideous tropical fruit necktie with a bright yellow background. It just didn't match his graver disposition.

Montgomery stepped toward Sherlock as he and John entered the office. "I see you're back again, Mr . . . Holmes, is it?"

"It would seem so," Sherlock answered. "This is my colleague, Dr John Watson."

John took his cue and came forward to extend his hand to Montgomery. The manager took it with a forced smile, which was more than John got from Richards. The other manager preferred to remain hovering near his desk where, among other things, sat a thick manuscript.

"I would like to apologise for the other day," said Montgomery after releasing John's hand, "but you must understand that we're still finding our footing here. Not that we are without managerial experience, of course, but sudden transitions like these are always a little bumpy."

"I'm sure murder doesn't facilitate things," quipped Sherlock.

Montgomery started at the word choice but tried to push another smile through his chubby cheeks. "Unfortunate as that is, there's no reason to be all doom and gloom about it. It was a sudden tragedy."

"Oh, don't pretend to believe Gary's death was the result of a mugging!" Sherlock wasn't helping to draw attention away from himself, but John let his friend have his say for a second. "Surely your superiors have grasped the reality of the situation and briefed you on it. Stop assuming I'm an idiot. It wastes time and makes me cross."

John took the spotlight from Sherlock with a clearing of the throat. "What he means is we understand the . . . delicacy of your situation, and the added stress of having us here asking you questions. That's why we would really appreciate your cooperation so we can all get this thing taken care of. Now, first of all, how well acquainted were you with Joseph Gary?"

Montgomery sighed and looked at Richards. The second man's lips pressed together in reluctant acquiescence. Montgomery nodded and returned to John. "Not at all, either of us. We were transferred from another theatre and promoted to management as soon as word of his death reached the company."

John noted that in his writing pad. "We have reason to believe that the people who murdered Gary accessed the sewers somewhere in the lower levels to remove his body from the theatre. Do you have any idea where that access point is?"

"I told your colleague yesterday," said Montgomery, a little ruffled, "that neither of us are that familiar with the theatre's architecture. We're just the managers!"

"And the blueprints?" said Sherlock from a corner of the office. He stood in front of a cabinet, his back to everyone.

Montgomery and Richards looked at each other again in frustration. What was Sherlock doing? He must have had the blueprints on him still, or else he was better at sleight of hand than John realised. Trying to not to appeared panicky, John interjected, "We can get back to that later. There's another matter you might be more equipped to help us with. The fact that Gary's office, the scene of the crime, was so thoroughly cleaned up, and that his chair had been removed and returned within a day for a cover-up job, points to one of the theatre staff being involved in the murder. I imagine you or your superiors ran background checks on all the employees."

"Of course," said Montgomery huffily. "Everyone has a clean record. Although . . ."

John lifted his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"We do have that Iranian fellow, Nadir Khan. He's not a convicted felon – at least, we don't think he is – but he left his country in something of a hurry about five years ago. I don't know anything beyond that, but it might be worth looking into."

"I see." John jotted Nadir's name down. A mental image of the man materialised before him. Hadn't he told himself the other day to keep an eye on him? Nadir struck him as very collected and mindful of other people, to the point that it appeared to be force of habit. So as not to forget to follow up on this lead, John starred the cleaner's name. "I suppose you can't think of anyone who would have wanted Gary dead."

"N-no," said Montgomery.

John tilted his head at the stammer. "Are you sure, Mr Montgomery?"

"Someone has come to your attention," said Sherlock. He turned his head toward Richards. "Isn't that right, Mr Richards? Someone who's harassing you for something. Money, I should think. You just found out this morning."

Montgomery eyes bugged out of his head. Richards clenched his hands and asked, "How could you know that?" in a strained voice.

"Why else have you been chewing nicotine gum all morning?"

Richards swallowed, making his Adam's apple bob like a buoy on choppy waters. "But I'm not chewing gum right now."

Sherlock turned ever so slightly toward him. "Your right hand is still trembling, if only slightly now, and it's been dodging in and out of your pocket and patting something that makes a crinkling sound. Your lightly-stained fingers also suggest that you were once a smoker but have been trying to quit for the last six months. It's been going pretty well, but when you're really agitated the old craving kicks in. That's why you keep a pack of nicotine gum handy." Now he turned fully, his eyes narrowed. "And why would two managers with a considerable amount of experience suffer anxiety from assuming a new post? Because your predecessor was murdered? Or because only two days into your new job you discover someone is giving you trouble? And it has to do with that massive packet of paper on your desk."

When Sherlock nodded to the item in question, all three listeners glanced at it. "It's your contract, isn't it? It stipulates terms and regulations regarding your duties. You've come across something that's made you uneasy, and given your managerial status, what greater cause for worry would face you than monetary extortion?"

Whether or not Sherlock's deduction was correct, John jotted it down as quickly as he could. The wind had been knocked out of him. And out of the managers, it seemed.

"Blimey," Montgomery muttered at last. "You _are_ good, Mr Holmes." He turned to his colleague. "We might as well tell him, Filbert. Maybe we could hire him!"

"I'm already assisting the police," said Sherlock, waving off the idea of financial reward. "Just show me the clause in question."

Montgomery looked up at his tight-lipped friend again. "Fil . . ."

"Fine!" the other manager violently barked. "But word of this does not leave the office, Mr Holmes. Understand?"

Sherlock simply nodded. John questioned this tack, although keeping Lestrade in the dark about some details was not new territory for them. He decided to defer and ask about it later. Both men came round Richards' desk to behold the hefty contract. Montgomery stood a few steps away, as if getting too close to the document made his blood pressure rise. Richards, stone-faced but bedewed above the lips, flipped through the many neatly printed pages until well over halfway into the manuscript. In the middle of the page, beneath the clause regarding managerial policies toward customers, an addendum had been inserted. Someone had scrawled it in red ink, and though the print was a bit easier to read, it was the same handwriting as the note on the back of the Guy Fawkes poem. John held in a gasp.

Richards didn't need to read aloud, or even re-read, the terms of this addendum. Both Sherlock and John looked over them silently. Every stipulated conditions regarding the 'Theatre Ghost': Box 5, production and casting choices, and a monthly salary. Sherlock whistled at that part. "Fifty-thousand pounds a month? This ghost must live quite the lifestyle."

"This isn't funny, Mr Holmes," wailed Montgomery from the other side of the desk. "As preposterous as it is, this is a very serious matter. Look what's at the end of its list of demands!"

Sherlock did indeed look. So did John. It took them a minute to work out the childish handwriting, but they came up with the same message: "If any of these conditions are violated by management, the Theatre Ghost reserves the right to exercise reprisal until said conditions are met. No legal measures are to be taken. Attempts to arrest and try a ghost will be taxing and in vain."

"Very serious, indeed," said Sherlock. A smile threatened his otherwise focused expression. "It's hardly a laughing matter to hand so much money over to a spectre."

"If you've had your fill of amusement," snarled Richards, "I suggest you either leave at once or agree to be of some use."

"Believe me, gentleman," Sherlock answered, all sobriety now, "I have every intention of finding out who this interesting individual is. They've been very successful, from what I've heard, at scaring most of your staff into believing that a ghost is at fault. And now I see that this person has something tangible to gain from it."

Montgomery swallowed. "But what about the—"

Richards glowered at him. "Shut it, Arnold!"

John looked at both managers. "About what?"

Richards approached his colleague to talk him out of whatever saying he wanted to say, but Montgomery insisted: "I'll not stand for it another second longer! No more voices! No more notes popping up on my desk!"

Sherlock glided up next to Montgomery. "You've been in communication with this person?"

"Last night," said Montgomery while ignoring Richards' irate scowl. "We were discussing the contract and the rumours about the ghost, and how ridiculous it was, when a voice from nowhere started talking to us. It spoke in a low, calm way, but it told us that if we wanted to keep our health, we would do exactly as it demanded. Since then, we've received two notes as reminders that, should we try to overstep our bounds, nothing but disaster would befall us."

"It's a load of bollocks," Richards stated plainly when his colleague was through his sweat-drenched recount of the last twelve hours. "We won't be intimidated by some fraud, whoever he is."

"It _is_ a man, then?" Sherlock inquired.

The managers regarded one another. Montgomery sighed. "We couldn't really tell. That's what made it worse. If it'd been absolutely a man or a woman, I could explain it away. But it was like no voice I'd ever heard. It was high and low at the same time . . . like it was two voices speaking in perfect unison."

Sherlock ran his eyes over the two men, like he was checking for any more clues about their habits or temperaments that could explain this phenomenon. "Is that all?"

"Well," Montgomery added, beginning to shake, "when it spoke, it so riveted me with its purity and resonance that I couldn't _not_ listen to it. In fact, it made its demands sound rather reasonable. But that only lasted while it talked. After that, we realised the madness of it all."

It seemed to John that this ghost, living or deceased, had a peculiar power. A voice that one would obey without question – that was how Mrs Bucket put it. No matter who it was or what it told you to do. He started to feel queasy.

After a lengthy pause in conversation, Sherlock thanked the managers and left the office without receiving permission or giving assurance. John offered what little comfort he could to them before it was necessary to trail after his friend. "We have to find that access point," the detective declared when they reached the floor that led into the auditorium. He didn't wait for an argument from John to walk in and make a beeline for the stage.

"Shouldn't we ask the managers first if we can? What about yesterday with Lestrade and his unit? If there are booby traps—"

"Booby traps mean someone is trying to hide something." Sherlock bounded up the stage steps, then headed for the backstage area to find a door or flight of stairs that would take them below. "This ghostly farce is more menacing than I first thought."

They soon found a set of winding stairs that took them right below the stage, although they couldn't get into its underbelly without unlocking the door. To no one's surprise, Sherlock came prepared. The lock-picking kit was getting a lot of use in this case.

John had assumed that the lower levels would be rigged with enough lights that people could make their wake around without trouble, but he could see only a few of those lamps used by construction workers which hung from hooks sparsely attached to wooden pillars. This setup threw long shadows over the mostly vacant space. There some set pieces – chairs, vanities, a papier-mâché well – stored there, along with music stands for the orchestra. John took out his torch and threw the beam over a wooden lift that didn't seem to be in use. Ropes in the pulleys hung limply. The two men ventured deeper into the space until Sherlock's foot stepped on a wooden board. Well, actually, it was a door to the next level below. Sherlock nearly tripped over the metal handle. He hoisted up the door with some effort and shined his light. The beam bounced off a mirror and many more set pieces. The friends looked at each other, shrugged and descended.

There were no lights down here, as much as John looked around for one. It was also much more crowded with stage equipment. John nearly jumped out of his skin at the group of human-size dolls with garishly painted faces. He needed a few deep breaths before his heart rate started to slow down. The space was just as large as the area underneath the stage, if not bigger. That might have been why the crew preferred keeping more of their sets down here, as well as what looked more like scraps of machinery or old sets that had to be dismantled.

None of these objects held much interest to Sherlock. He manoeuvred through it all until he found a wall, then gradually felt his way along it with one hand. The other kept aiming his torch this way and that for signs of an exit. Or a trap.

John stopped walking for a moment. There was an odd smell to this place. Yes, it was musty from the rusting metal scraps and the aging set pieces that may not have been touched in a while, but there was a pervasive foulness in the air. It was as though they were treading near an open grave. Or maybe . . . the sewers?

"Sherlock," John whispered, and he took a step. He tripped over what he took to be a wooden handle to something, but other unnameable noises started going off, he jumped forward and hit the ground. He tucked his head into his hands and waited for silence to return. It soon did, except for the swishes of a long coat and the steps of Italian leather shoes.

"John!" Sherlock dropped to the dusty floor. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry. It was just a reflex." John got up on his knees and looked behind him.

"A reflex that may have saved your life," stated Sherlock. He didn't sound pleased saying that.

When he lifted his eyes a bit higher, John saw why. His stomach dropped. Right about where his head would have been had he remained standing, there hung a noose. "What the hell!" he cried. He pushed himself to his feet and nearly stumbled into Sherlock to get away from the menacing rope. "Would that have—?"

Sherlock picked up a long piece of metal and, with great care, lightly prodded the rope. It swayed and did nothing else. No one uttered a word. There was nothing in John's ears but the sound of their heavy breathing. Then there came a heavy creak from somewhere in the room. Then another. And another. They were footsteps.

The friends aimed their torches everywhere but saw no one. John's heart rate sky rocketed, and this time he could do little to change that. They stood back to back and waited for something – _anything_ – to appear. The steps stopped.

_It's not a ghost_, were the first words that popped into John's head. He repeated them over and over as they stayed alert for another sound. How could it be a ghost? What ghost would set up a noose in a storage space for theatre sets? But then, what sane, morally sound person would do that, either?

John felt Sherlock start behind him. He turned round and shined his torch at the same place Sherlock did. "Did you see something?" he whispered.

He heard Sherlock clench his teeth together. "Not really. At least . . . no. Nothing."

John swallowed. _Please, dear God, let this not be Dartmoor all over again. _

He barely finished the thought before a pairs of unseen hands grabbed his shoulders.


	18. The Voice

Yeah, so, the whole update-over-the-summer idea didn't exactly pan out. But this was one of the toughest chapters since very little is going on. Things will pick up in the next one, I promise. For now, enjoy the banter! Thank you for your beautiful reviews!

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Chapter 17: The Voice

A soldier's reflex is a dangerous thing to provoke. John hadn't been on the battlefield for over a year, though. Most times his reaction to being attacked or surprised wouldn't prove fatal. But that didn't mean a part of him, hidden deep within folds of morality and control, wasn't willing to punch a man in the spleen or windpipe and cause whatever damage necessary to neutralise his adversary. He didn't think twice about twisting partway around to grab his mysterious assailant, locking his arm around the man's neck and pulling him down in a chokehold.

The man grunted in alarm but flailed only half-heartedly. John sensed the man's feet moving into strategic positions to unbalance him. He responded by adjusting his stance and angling down the man's head and neck even more. The assailant shifted his weight to push on John's legs, which did result in them both staggering toward a heap of rubbish. John, feeling his heart rate spike at the impending collision, focused solely on not falling or letting the man trip him up. He forgot he had an ally with him until Sherlock, armed with a wooden beam, came up behind the attacker and struck him in the back of his left knee. The man cried out and went down on his knees. The move allowed John to get behind him and throw his weight on him. He flattened the man and pinned him with his knee and forearm.

Sherlock shined his torch on the man. The head, pressing against the cold, dirty floor, faced them in profile. Doctor and detective recognised the face and the slate gray uniform worn by the theatre's cleaners.

"We meet again, Mr Khan," declared Sherlock in an ominously pleased tone. "What are you doing down here?"

Nadir Khan tried to wiggle free. John kept him in place. "I _work _here. And I could ask you the same question."

"Why'd you attack me?" John snarled through clamped teeth.

"I was _not _attacking you! I thought you were vandals or burglars breaking into the cellars. I didn't recognise you in the dark."

"A verbal warning would have done the trick." Sherlock stepped around to loom over Nadir's head. "Let him sit up, John."

The doctor grunted but nonetheless acquiesced. With John's knee gone, Nadir gasped for air and pushed himself up. His jade eyes peeped up at Sherlock through the glare of the torch. "I thought you would take off if I did. And if I may say so, I don't think crushing my windpipe was warranted, either." He only looked at Sherlock, but his words and the gesture of rubbing his neck were meant for John.

"A soldier will do what he must. You'd do well to remember that." Sherlock's eyes flitted to John for half a second. They held a faint glint of both humour and respect.

Nadir coughed before rising to his feet. "I assume you are here without the permission of the managers."

While offering John a hand off the floor, Sherlock still paid the cleaner enough attention to raise his eyebrows. "How observant of you. We didn't receive _explicit_ permission to come down here. Then again, they didn't say we couldn't."

"In other words, you didn't ask."

"You could say that."

"I see." Nadir all but returned to the collected persona he normally emoted whenever John saw him. He stood very straight. "Then I must suggest that you leave before I am forced to remove you."

Sherlock matched his sturdy stance. "You're a cleaner, not a security guard." The tenor of his voice bordered on supercilious. "Why should I listen to you?"

"I am asking you out of courtesy to you and to my employers." Nadir's voice didn't exactly get louder, but it filled the space in an intimidating way.

"Are you also asking out of courtesy to the person who set up _that_?" Sherlock pointed a defaming finger toward the dangling noose.

Even in the darkness, John thought Nadir's face, though stoically still, went a shade paler when he saw the malicious trap. He replied with quiet, righteous ferocity. "Whoever did that will be held accountable."

"What a relief," the detective drawled. "You have no idea who put that there?"

Nadir retreated a step. "Perhaps one of the crew, but no one I could identify."

Sherlock followed him. "Why one of the crew? Someone with a vendetta? A prankster with a twisted sense of humour?"

"I know no one among the cleaners who fits those criteria." Nadir's other foot slid back slowly while he watched Sherlock and John. Some flecks of grime from the floor stuck to his dark beard. The grime and the stains on his uniform made him strangely congruous with the hills of forsaken items that surrounded them.

"What about the performers? Cleaners are the flies on the wall, the CCTV system of their workplace. Did no one ever strike you as suspicious?"

"You give me too much credit." Nadir spoke with a quiet chuckle that surprised John almost as much as his sudden shoulder-grab. The man knew how to chuckle? John had never seen him break into a smile. Then he understood: the man was nervous. Truly nervous. But of Sherlock and his questions? He never let his guard down before when under scrutiny. What made his shell crack now?

"I think not." Sherlock's voice dipped even lower as he walked closer to Nadir. "Your stance, your disposition in company . . . what happened to you, Mr Khan? Why did a policeman like yourself need to flee his own country and become a cleaner?"

The rest of the shell continued to splinter, but Nadir, to John's amazement, fought to hold it together despite being exposed. "How do you know that?" he asked with a considerable amount of restraint.

"Like I told you, I observe." Sherlock scanned Nadir's figure with the torch's light. "The way you hold yourself; your silent, watchful demeanor; your resistance to answering questions – and when you do, your answers are clipped, clear, efficient; and the fact that you, rather than inform the managers or contact the police, followed and tried to apprehend us yourself – something only the adventurous, the stupid and the experienced would do. Policeman so far fits nicely. You also still feel endowed with a certain degree of authority even though your position does not lend any. The managers, while not giving us permission to explore, _were_ kind enough to tell us that you'd left Iran in something of a hurry. You could be a criminal, but your otherwise clean record and attitude toward potential criminals suggests the opposite. "

John held his breath for Nadir's response. Responses to Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions normally fell in one of two categories: astonished admiration or astonished annoyance. Nadir's mouth opened a little, signaling the astonished part of the expected reaction. John was prepared for pretty much anything. Anything except laughter – laughter that invaded the air. First as a whisper. Then a distant rumble. Then an oceanic crash of hysterical cackling.

The laughter didn't come from Nadir Khan. John couldn't tell where it came from or the sex of its owner. He felt his skin freeze over. He spun around. His foot knocked against his lost torch. The combination of terror at this new, unknown presence and the need to see it made him briefly forget about Nadir and dive for the torch. Just as his hand clamped around it, he heard Sherlock shout, "John!" His friend's voice brought him right back up to his feet. He looked in time to see Nadir vanish behind a tower of rubbish. Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve and towed him along after the cleaner.

"Sherlock, wait!" They started weaving through the narrow pathways among the discarded set pieces and props, but the memory of the noose made John snag Sherlock's sleeve. "What if we trigger another trap? We don't even know what we're dealing with!"

Sherlock stopped so quickly that John crashed into his back. The taller man remained steady and shined his torch in every direction. Aside from their breathing, they heard no other sounds. No footsteps or voices. After regaining his balance, John pulled on his friend's sleeve again. "We should go. I've got a really, _really_ bad feeling about this."

He would never be sure which did it: his words, or the sudden stampede above them. But Sherlock did reverse direction, and the pair ascended the stairs that brought them into that dank, depressing cellar. They reached light and fresh air just before a barrage of stage crew overwhelmed them with their curiosity. Several of them claimed to have heard a ruckus down below. Others asked if someone else hadn't heard the 'awful laugh' that travelled from under the stage to the wings of the theatre. Sherlock barrelled past all people and questions and made for the closest exit, John never far behind.

"What the hell was that?" the still rattled doctor asked when they were back in the safe confines of a cab. "The laughing voice. Was that the ghost? Is Khan somehow behind it? I've been wondering if he knew something or had a hand in matters. You said he wasn't a criminal, but cops can go bad, too. You still think this somehow connects to Gary's murder?"

Sherlock propped his elbow against the window sill. He pressed his hand against his mouth and kept his gaze aimed out the window for the entire ride home. A long moment passed before he answered, "Don't talk. Need to think." His words were muffled behind the stubborn hand.

That was that, then, until they reached Baker Street. Sherlock stayed silent even as they processed up the stairs and entered the sitting area. He hung up his coat and immediately paced across the room several times, hands in a prayer pose. "John," he announced at last, after leaving his friend in confounding silence for a good ten minutes. "I need the wall."

A groan slid out of John's throat. It unfortunately couldn't excuse him from getting up from the comfy chair and exchanging it for the less comfy chair at the table. In a few minutes his computer was up and running, connected to the printer. He began searching images Sherlock speedily listed off to print out. Fifty pages of printer paper later, the pair worked together cropping the pictures and taping them to the wall over the sofa. Sherlock whipped out a map of Soho and hung it up. It was already well marked with dots, circles and notes from previous cases. Dismissing them entirely, Sherlock used a red pencil to circle the locations of the Palace Theatre, Gary's flat, St Martin-in-the-Fields, and the Tin Pan Alley Bar. The four spots formed a wonky quadrangle. Apart from being relatively close in proximity, the arrangement of places held little meaning to John.

That was only the start. John put up photos of Mr and Mrs Gary and labelled them. After searching Nadir and Malaika Qadir's names and coming up with no photos of them, John settled for a random picture of a man in a cleaner's uniform and another of a woman whose burqa resembled Malaika's. To his surprise, John did find a picture of Jonas Nilsson on St Martin's website in a group photo. Each person was placed at the location of their occupation, except Gary. Sherlock placed him at the scene where his body was discovered. He also connected threads between people and the locations they associated with besides where they worked. It soon became evident, if it weren't already, that Gary sat in the middle of a complex web. He was the common denominator.

"Wait," said John. "What about the old man at the pub?"

Sherlock took John's notepad without permission and drew a quick sketch of the man he'd seen at the pub. Though it was in red pencil and only a quick capture, it was a near-perfect likeness. John thought he could identify the odd-looking bloke if he saw him in real life. Sherlock scribbled question marks in place of a name and pinned him up at the TPA Bar.

With their mural completely set up, Sherlock stepped back and tried to view it all at once. John stared along with him. There was so much information. So many suspects, yet no clear leads. John folded his arms and scowled in thought. He didn't know where to start.

The detective suddenly pushed him back. "Go over there. Don't look at the wall. Your thoughts keep throwing me off."

John began to object. His resistance impelled Sherlock to forcibly escort him by the shoulder back to his overstuffed chair. It could have been worse. John could name four instances off the top of his head when Sherlock outright ordered him to leave the flat for a couple of hours while he mulled over a case. He took the opportunity to settle into the inviting leather upholstery and catch up on some reading. He picked up today's paper, still lying slightly askew on Sherlock's chair. It was nice to be able to relax his brain for a change while he read an article about the buzz regarding the queen's upcoming Golden Jubilee.

Half an hour passed before Sherlock's voice, low and frustrated, imposed on John's relaxation. "It has to be, John. It has to be about Gary's criminal life. Nilsson's involved, too. He knows more than he's saying. Text Lestrade. Tell him to bring in Nilsson for questioning."

His flatmate obeyed, glad that some progress was being made. A few minutes later John got a reply. "He wants to know if you have any specific questions for him to ask."

A long, soft sigh emitted from Sherlock. "Press for information about Malaika Qadir. I'm sure he knows her whereabouts."

After sending off the message, John didn't receive any more texts from Lestrade. Sherlock kept checking in – as if John would withhold information from him. "Keep your britches on, Sherlock. This isn't the only case he's working on, you know."

"Can't he hand over the others to someone else?" Sherlock sounded more like a five-year-old with every passing moment.

"You know it doesn't work like that. He does a lot already to accommodate you."

"If I ask enough times, yes!" Sherlock huffed and whirled away from the wall. John looked up to see him retrieve his violin from the window sill. Seeing it carefully balanced in such a hazardous position both impressed and worried him. "If I were in his position, I'd make the necessary effort to keep the boring cases off my desk."

"And make sure you were fired in a week, no doubt." A smirk bloomed on John's face.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. He did that on the rare occasion he was blindsided or embarrassed. "Well . . ." He dismissed it with another huff and started playing. John didn't recognise the music by name, but it carried a grave, pondering tone that coloured all the pieces Sherlock performed when he needed help with brainwork. When the piece sounded like it was coming to a close, the detective suddenly switched to something more upbeat and violent. This new attitude disrupted John's ability to read, so he went to the kitchen to make lunch and brew a pot. He felt temped to go for a walk when Sherlock started grinding away at the strings, but just as the whistle for the kettle went off, the violin music returned to a sombre, almost mournful timbre. That John could handle. He came back with a cup for Sherlock, which he knew the detective wouldn't touch. He'd made it anyway just in case. If he had learned anything about Sherlock, both recently and within the past year, it was to be ready for "just in case", however unlikely it seemed. After eating, John alternated between reading the paper and magazines and browsing the web on his laptop.

The rest of the day passed in this fashion. When Sherlock took breaks from playing, he didn't talk to John, or even to himself. He plopped on the sofa, rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling. John never doubted that Sherlock was still meditating on the case. He never bothered recording this part of their investigations in his blog. Who wanted to waste time reading about how Sherlock languished for an entire day in the flat just thinking, rather than how he ran around the city badgering people and finding the most inscrutable yet crucial clues? For John, the slower, quieter moments gave him more time to think. Well, they weren't all that quiet. That was okay, too, in a strange way. John didn't like things to get too quiet.

It surprised John when he checked his watch and saw that five o'clock had snuck up on them. He suddenly remembered Sarah. Tonight. At the theatre. He almost jumped from his seat. Remembering what he'd told Sherlock – that he had another shift at the surgery – he made himself rise slowly and casually walk out the room and up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't question his departure, or even seem to notice. When he got to his room, John started rummaging through his closet. What should he wear? If he left dressed for an evening out, Sherlock would surely catch wind of what he was up to.

The best strategy was to take his time. He assessed his collection of jumpers and shirts. A balance had to be struck between dressy enough for theatre yet appropriate for work. Twenty minutes proved enough time to do this without drawing Sherlock's notice by his absence. John came back down and checked in on his friend. For the first time in several hours, the detective stared straight at the wall. To get close to it, he had to stand on the sofa and kneel against its head. His fingers planted themselves on the collage over the four buildings he had circled. He parted his lips and squinted. It looked as though he'd finally found two pieces that came very close to fitting together.

John coughed. "Found something?"

Sherlock held still for a second, then relaxed. He dropped his hand and let it slap against his side. "Possibly." He turned to John, probably just to glance and acknowledge his presence, but instead he did a double-take. "Going somewhere?"

John resisted squaring his shoulders or straightening up. He had to seem nonchalant. "I told you I have work tonight. I wanted to dress before having dinner."

Grey eyes narrowed on him. "What time is it? I thought you didn't go in till seven."

"Well . . . I wanted to eat and then . . . go and look for something for Sarah."

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped. "Sarah?" He shut his eyes and snapped his fingers. "The, uh, the doctor, right? Why do you need to get her anything? You're still working together?"

John smiled and went into the kitchen. It was probably too soon, but he felt rather proud of himself. Nothing like using the truth to tell a convincing lie. "Yes, we're still working together. It's her birthday. I forgot until she reminded me yesterday."

Sherlock sniffed and returned his gaze to the wall. "Tell her no, John."

"No what?" John wanted to buy himself time and keep Sherlock distracted. He didn't care about anything else enough to get riled up.

"You can't take her back. No matter what she says or does, it won't be worth it. It won't last."

"Sherlock, relax. This isn't a date. We're just friends." He let a moment pass, giving him time to take out a frozen dinner and pre-heat the oven. "But why do you think it wouldn't work? I mean if, hypothetically, Sarah and I wanted to get back together."

"Do you know how many girlfriends you've had since Sarah?"

John chuckled sharply. "I'm not sure _you_ know."

"I've got it stored away. Somewhere. The point is you are not in a position to maintain a prolonged romantic or sexual relationship. Women like prolonged relationships. Ergo, you and Sarah would not be able to sustain one. Encouraging her would be a waste of time."

"Going by that logic," said John, setting the timer, "Sarah should know from experience that things won't work with us. So, what makes you think she's interested?"

"Women also like a project. They consider turning a single man with commitment issues into a devoted partner a major accomplishment. It has something to do with self-esteem."

John poked his head out of the kitchen. "How would you know?"

"Remember the case of the man with two IDs? The real estate agent who convinced his 'fiancée' he was two people?"

The details of the case gradually returned to John's mind. "Oh, right. Poor girl. But Sarah's not like that. I think she's seen other people since, and she knows we're better off as friends."

"Then why did she remind you it was her birthday?"

"I don't know! I guess I forgot last year, too, and she wanted me to have something to give her this time."

Sherlock had no off-the-cuff response for that. All his attention was apparently redirected back to the smattering of pictures. He waited to speak after the oven was ready for John's still frozen dinner. "No chance of getting out of work?"

"Nope." John felt the undertow. He treaded mindfully.

"Are you going anywhere after work, or will you come straight back?"

"I'll be back as soon as I can," said John with a sigh.

"Not going out for dear Sarah's birthday?"

"I can make arrangements if you need me out of the flat for longer."

This suggestion made Sherlock look at John with widened eyes. "Why would I want that?"

John chuckled again. "There isn't much I can do now, is there? You didn't even want me looking at the wall!"

The pout sprouting on Sherlock's mug signalled to John that he had, for the second time in two days, managed to annoy his friend into resorting to three-year-olds' facial expressions. He'd maxed out on witty responses. Maybe Sherlock needed a proper holiday.

The good news was that the doctor could eat in peace before leaving. Sherlock asked him only one thing as he swallowed down limp spaghetti and soupy marinara sauce. "What's so important about birthdays, anyway? We don't do anything special for each other. We don't even remember the dates."

John looked up. A small piece of pasta clung to his lip. "I remember when your birthday is!"

Sherlock twisted his head around. "You do?"

"January sixth!"

"Oh." The detective rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Sounds right."

John laughed just somewhat incredulously. "Why am I not surprised?" He finished wolfing down his meal, wiped off what didn't make it into his mouth, and then cleared his place. When the kitchen was back in order, John headed for the door and told him he'd see him later, very likely between ten-thirty and eleven. Sherlock was already enrapt again with examining their visual aid. If John was lucky, his flatmate wouldn't even realise he'd been gone for at least an hour.


End file.
